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A WINDOW IN THRUMS 


IN THRUMS 


A WINDOW 





J. M. ' BARRIE 

AUTHOR OF 

“THE LITTLE MINISTER,” “WHEN A MAN’S SINGLE,” “ AULD LICHT 
IDYLLS,” “ MY LADY NICOTINE,” ETC. 


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NEW YORK 

LOVELL, CORYELL & COMPANY 

5 and 7 East Sixteenth Street 

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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I.— The House on the Brae, 

II. — On The Track of the Minister, 

III. — Preparing to Receive Company, 

IV. — Waiting for the Doctor, . 

V. — A Humorist on His Calling, 

VI. — Dead This Twenty Years, . 

VII. — The Statement of Tibbie Birse, 

VIII.— A Cloak with Beads, .... 

IX.— The Power of Beauty, 

X.— A Magnum Opus, 

XI.— The Ghost Cradle 

XII.— The Tragedy of a Wife, . 

XIII. — Making the Best of It, 

XIV. —Visitors at the Manse, 

XV.— How Gavin Birse Put It to Mag Lownie, 

XVI. — The Son from London, 

XVII. — A Home for Geniuses, 

XVIII. — Leeby and Jamie, .... 

XIX.— The Tale of a Glove, .... 

XX.— The Last Night, 

XXI. — Jess Left Alone, 

XXII. — Jamie’s Home-Coming, 


PAGE 

7 

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26 

34 

44 

55 

68 

77 

90 

98 

106 

118 

127 

136 

146 

157 

173 

181 

193 

205 

215 

224 











A WINDOW IN' THRUMS. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. 

On the bump of green round which the brae 
twists, at the top of the brae, and within cry 
of T’nowhead Farm, still stands a one-story 
house, whose whitewashed walls, streaked with 
the discoloration that rain leaves, look yellow 
when the snow comes. In the old days the 
stiff ascent left Thrums behind, and where is 
now the making of a suburb was only a poor 
row of dwellings and a manse, with Hendry’s 
cot to watch the brae. The house stood bare, 
without a shrub, in a garden whose paling did 
not go all the way round, the potato pit being 
only kept out of the road, that here sets off 

southward, by a broken dyke of stones and 

% 


8 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


earth. On each side of the slate-colored door 
was a window of knotted glass. Ropes were 
flung over the thatch to keep the roof on in 
wind. 

Into this humble abode I would take any one 
who cares to accompany me. But you must 
not come in a contemptuous mood, thinking 
that the poor are but a stage removed from 
beasts of burden, as some cruel writers of these 
days say ; nor will I have you turn over with 
your foot the shabby horse-hair chairs that 
Leeby kept so speckless, and Hendry weaved 
for years to buy, and Jess so loved to look upon. 

I speak of the chairs, but if we go together 
into the “ room” they will not be visible to you. 
For a long time the house has been to let. 
Here, on the left of the doorway, as we enter, 
is the room, without a shred of furniture in it 
except the boards of two closed-in beds. The 
flooring is not steady, and here and there holes 
have been eaten into the planks. You can 
scarcely stand upright beneath the decaying 
ceiling. Worn boards and ragged walls, and 
the rusty ribs fallen from the fireplace, are all 


A HOUSE ON THE BRAE. 


9 


that meet your eyes, but I see a round, un- 
steady, waxcloth- covered table, with four books 
lying at equal distances on it. There are six 
prim chairs, two of them not to be sat upon, 
backed against the walls, and between the 
window and the fireplace a chest of drawers, 
with a snowy coverlet. On the drawers stands 
a board with colored marbles for the game of 
solitaire, and I have only to open the drawer 
with the loose handle to bring out the dambrod. 
In the carved wood frame oyer the window 
hangs Jamie’s portrait ; in the only other frame 
a picture of Daniel in the den of lions, sewn by 
Leeby in wool. Over the chimney-piece with 
its shells, in which the roar of the sea can be 
heard, are strung three rows of bird’s eggs. 
Once again we might be expecting company 
to tea. 

The passage is narrow. There is a square 
hole between the rafters, and a ladder leading 
up to it. You may climb and look into the 
attic, as Jess liked to hear me call my tiny 
garret -room. I am stiff er now than in the 
days when I lodged with Jess during the sum- 


10 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


mer holiday I am trying to bring back, and 
there is no need for me to ascend. Do not 
laugh at the newspapers with which Leeby 
papered the garret, nor at the yarn Hendry 
stuffed into the windy holes. He did it to 
warm the house for Jess. But the paper must 
have gone to pieces and the yarn rotted dec- 
ades ago. 

I have kept the kitchen for the last, as 
Jamie did on the dire day of which I shall have 
to tell. It has a flooring of stone now, where 
there used only to be hard earth, and a broken 
pane in the window is indifferently stuffed with 
rags. But it is the other window I turn to, 
with a pain at my heart, and pride and fond- 
ness too, the square foot of glass where Jess 
sat in her chair and looked down the brae. 

Ah, that brae ! The history of tragic little 
Thrums is sunk into it like the stones it swal- 
lows in the winter. We have all found the 
brae long and steep in the spring of life. Do 
you remember how the child you once were sat 
at the foot of it and wondered if a new world 
began at the top? It climbs from a shallow 


THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. 11 

burn, and we used to sit on the brig a long 
time before venturing to climb. As boys we 
ran up the brae. As men and women, young 
and in our prime, we almost forgot that it was 
there. But the autumn of life comes, and the 
brae grows steeper ; then the winter, and once 
again we are as the child pausing apprehen- 
sively on the brig. Yet are we no longer the 
child ; we look now for no new world at the 
top, only for a little garden and a tiny house, 
and a hand -loom in the house. It is only a 
garden of kail and potatoes, but there may be 
a line of daisies, white and red, on each side of 
the narrow footpath, and honeysuckle over the 
door. Life is not always hard, even after backs 
grow bent, and we know that all braes lead 
only to the grave. 

This is Jess’ window. For more than 
twenty years she had not been able to go so 
far as the door, and only once while I knew 
her was she ben in the room. With her hus- 
band, Hendry, or their only daughter, Leeby, 
to lean upon, and her hand clutching her staff, 
she took twice a day, when she was strong, the 


12 - A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 

journey between her bed and the window 
where stood her chair. She did not lie there 
looking at the sparrows or at Leeby redding 
up the house, and I hardly ever heard her com- 
plain. All the sewing was done by her; she 
often baked on a table pushed close to the win- 
dow, and by leaning forward she could stir the 
porridge. Leeby was seldom off her feet, but 
I do not know that she did more than Jess, 
who liked to tell me, when she had a moment 
to spare, that she had a terrible lot to be 
thankful for. 

To those who dwell in great cities Thrums 
is only a small place, but what a clatter of life 
it has for me when I come to it from my 
school-house in the glen. Had my lot been 
cast in a town I would no doubt have sought 
country parts during my September holiday, 
but the school-house is quiet even when the 
summer takes brakes full of sportsmen and 
others past the top of my footpath, and I was 
always light-hearted when Craigiebuckle’s cart 
bore me into the din of Thrums. I only once 
stayed during the whole of my holiday at the 


THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE . 13 

house on the brae, but I knew its inmates for 
many years, including Jamie, the son, who 
was a barber in London. Of their ancestry I 
never heard. With us it was only some of the 
articles of furniture, or perhaps a snuff-mull, 
that had a genealogical tree. In the house on 
the brae was a great kettle, called the boiler, 
that was said to be fifty years old in the days 
of Hendry’s grandfather, of whom nothing 
more is known. Jess’ chair, which had carved 
arms and a seat stuffed with rags, had been 
Snecky Hobart’s father’s before it was hers, 
and old Snecky bought it at a roup in the Tene- 
ments. Jess’ rarest possession was, perhaps, 
the christening robe that even people at a dis- 
tance came to borrow. Her mother could count 
up a hundred persons who had been baptized 
in it. 

Every one of the hundred, I believe, is dead, 
and even I cannot now pick out Jess and Hen- 
dry’s grave; but I heard recently that the 
christening robe is still in use. It is strange 
that I should still be left after so many 
changes, one of the three or four who can to* 


14 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


day stand on the brae and point out Jess’ 
window. The little window commands the 
incline to the point where the brae suddenly 
jerks out of sight in its climb down into the 
town. The steep path up the common ty makes 
for this elbow of the brae; and thus, which 
ever way the traveller takes, it is here that he 
comes first into sight of the window. Here, 
too, those who go to the town from the south 
get their first glimpse of Thrums. 

Carts pass up and down the brae every few 
minutes, and there comes an occasional gig. 
Seldom is the brae empty, for many live be- 
yond the top of it now, and men and women 
go by to their work, children to school or play. 
Not one of the children I see from the window 
to-day is known to me, and most of the men 
and women I only recognize by their likeness 
to their parents. That sweet-faced old woman 
with the shawl on her shoulders may be one of 
the girls who was playing at the game of 
palaulays when Jamie stole into Thrums for 
the last time ; the man who is leaning on the 
commonty gate gathering breath for the last 


THE HOUSE ON THE BRAE. 15 

quarter of the brae may, as a barefooted cal- 
lant, have been one of those who chased Cree 
Queery past the poor-house. I cannot say; 
bu t this I know, that the grandparents of most 
of these boys and girls were once young with 
me. If I see the sons and daughters of my 
friends grown old, I also see the grandchildren 
spinning the peerie and hunkering at I-dree-I- 
dree — I-droppit-it — as we did so long ago. 
The world remains as young as ever. The 
lovers that met on the common ty in the gloam- 
ing are gone, but there are other lovers to take 
their place, and still the common ty is here. 
The sun had sunk on a fine day in June, early 
in the century, when Hendry and Jess, newly 
married, he in a rich moleskin waistcoat, she 
in a white net cap, walked to the house on the 
brae that was to be their home. So Jess has 
told me. Here again has been just such a day, 
and somewhere in Thrums there may be just 
such a couple, setting out for their home behind 
a horse with white ears instead of walking, but 
with the same hopes and fears, and the same 
love light in their eyes. The world does not 


16 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


age. The hearse passes over the brae and up 
the straight burying-ground road, but still 
there is a cry for the christening robe. 

Jess’ window was a beacon by night to 
travellers in the dark, and it will be so in the 
future when there are none to remember Jess. 
There are many such windows still, with lov- 
ing faces behind them. From them we watch 
for the friends and relatives who are coming 
back, and some, alas! watch in vain. Not 
every one returns who takes the elbow of the 
brae bravely, or waves his handkerchief to 
those who watch from the window with wet 
eyes, and some return too late. To Jess, at 
her window always when she was not in bed, 
things happy and mournful and terrible came 
into view. At this window she sat for twenty 
years or more looking at the world as through 
a telescope ; and here an awful ordeal was gone 
through after her sweet, untarnished soul had 
been given back to God. 


CHAPTER II. 


ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 

On the afternoon of the Saturday that carted 
me and my two boxes to Thrums, I was hen 
in the room playing Hendry at the dambrod. 
I had one of the room chairs, but Leeby 
brought a chair from the kitchen for her 
father. Our door stood open, and as Hendry 
often pondered for two minutes with his hand 
on a “man,” I could ha,ve joined in the gossip 
that was going on hut the house. 

“Ay, weel, then, Leeby,” said Jess, sud- 
denly, “I’ll warrant the minister ’ll no he 
preachin’ the morn.” 

This took Leeby to the window. 

“Yea, yea,” she said (and I knew she was 
nodding her head sagaciously) ; I looked out 
at the room window, but all I could see was a 
man wheeling an empty barrow down the 
brae. 


2 


17 


18 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


“That’s Eobbie Tosh,” continued Leeby; 
“an’ there’s nae doot ’at he’s makkin’ for the 
minister’s, for he has on his black coat. HeTl 
be to row the minister’s luggage to the post- 
cart. Ay, an’ that’s Davit Lunan’s barrow. 
I ken it by the shaft’s bein’ spliced wi’ yarn. 
Davit broke the shaft at the saw-mill.” 

“HeTl be gaen awa for a curran (number 
of) days,” said Jess, “or be would juist hae 
taen his bag. Ay, he’ll be awa to Edinbory, 
to see the lass.” 

“I wonder wha ’ll be to preach the morn — 
tod, it’ll likely be Mr. Skinner, frae Dundee; 
him an’ the minister’s chief, ye ken.” 

“Ye micht gang up to the attic, Leeby, an’ 
see if the spare bedroom vent (chimney) at the 
manse is gaen. We’re sure, if it’s Mr. Skin- 
ner, he’ll come wi’ the post frae Tilliedrum 
the nicht, an’ sleep at the manse.” 

“ Weel, I assure ye, ’’said Leeby, descending 
from the attic, “ it’ll no be Mr. Skinner, for no 
only is tht> spare bedroom vent no gaen, but 
the blind’s drawn doon frae tap to fut, so 
they’re no even airin’ the room. Na, it canna 


ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 19 

be him; an’ what’s mair, it’ll be naebody ’at’s 
to bide a’ nicht at the manse.” 

“I wouldna say that; na, na. It may only 
be a student; an’ Marget Dundas (the minis- 
ter’s mother and housekeeper) michtna think 
it necessary to put on a fire for him.” 

“Tod, I’ll tell ye wha it’ll be. I wonder I 
didna think o’ ’im sooner. It’ll be the lad 
Wilkie; him ’ats’ mither mairit on Sam’l 
Duthie’s wife’s brither. They bide in Cupar, 
an’ I mind ’at when the son was here twa or 
three year syne he was juist gaen to begin the 
diveenity classes in Glesca.” 

“If that’s so, Leeby, he would be sure to 
bide wi’ Sam’l. Hendry, hae ye heard ’at 
Sam’l Duthie’s expeckin’ a stranger the nicht? ” 

“Haud yer tongue,” replied Hendry, who 
was having the worst of the game. 

“Ay, but I ken he is,” said Leeby trium- 
phantly to her mother, “for ye mind when I 
was in at Johnny Watt’s (the draper’s) Chirsty 
(Sam’l’s wife) was buyin’ twa yards o’ chintz, 
an’ I couldna think what she would be wantin’ 
’t for!” 


20 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“ I thocht Johnny said to ye ’at it was for 
a present to Chir sty’s auntie? ” 

“ Ay, but he juist guessed that; for, though 
he tried to get oot o’ Chirsty what she wanted 
the chintz for, she wouldna tell ’im. But I 
see noo what she was after. The lad Wilkie 
’ll be to bide wi’ them, and Chirsty had bocht 
the chintz to cover the airm-chair wi’. It’s 
ane o’ thae hair-bottomed chairs, but terrible 
torn, so she’ll hae covered it for ’im to sit on.” 

“I wouldna wonder but ye’re richt, Leeby; 
for Chirsty would be in an oncommon fluster 
if she thocht the lad’s mither was likely to 
hear 'at her best chair was torn. Ay, ay, 
bein’ a man, he wouldna think to tak aff the 
chintz an’ hae a look at the chair withoot it.” 

Here Hendry, who had paid no attention to 
the conversation, broke in : 

“ Was ye speirin’ had I seen Sam’l Duthie? 
I saw ’im yesterday buy in’ a fender at Will’um 
Crook’s roup.” 

“A fender! Ay, ay, that settles the ques- 
tion,” said Leeby ; “I’ll warrant the fender as 
for Chirsty’s parlor. It’s preyed on Chirsty’s 


ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 21 

mmd, they say, this fower- and -thirty year ’at 
she doesna hae a richt parlor fender.” 

“Leeby, look! That’s Robbie Tosh wi’ the 
barrow. He has a miclity load o’ luggage. 
Am thinkin, the minister’s bound for Tillie- 
drum.” 

“ Na, he’s no, he’s gaen to Edinbory, as ye 
micht ken by the bandbox. That’ll be his 
mither’s bonnet he’s takkin’ back to get al- 
tered. Ye’ll mind she was never pleased wi’ 
the set o’ the flowers.” 

“ Weel, weel, here comes the minister him- 
sel, an’ very snod he is. Ay, Marget’s been 
puttin’ new braid on his coat, an’ he’s carry in’ 
the sma’ black bag he bocht in Dundee last 
year: he’ll hae’s nicht-shirt an’ a comb in’t, 
I dinna doot. Ye micht rin to the corner 
Leeby, an’ see if he cries in at Jess McTag- 
gart’s in passin’.” 

“It’s my opeenion,” said Leeby, returning 
excitedly from the corner, “’at the lad Wil- 
kie’s no to be preachin’ the morn, after a’. 
When I gangs to the corner, at ony rate, what 
think ye’s the first thing I see but the minister 


22 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


an’ Sain’l Duthie meetin’ face to face? Ay, 
weel, it’s gospel am tellin’ ye when I say as 
Sam’l flung hack his head an’ walkit richt by 
the minister ! ” 

“Losh keep’s a’, Leehy; ye say that? They 
maun hae haen a quarrel.” 

“I’m thinkin’ we’ll hae Mr. Skinner i’ the 
poopit the morn after. a’.” 

“It may he, it may he. Ay, ay, look, 
Leehy, whatna hit kimmer’s that wi’ the twa 
jugs in her hand? ” 

“Eh! Ou, it’ll he Lawyer Ogilvy’s servant 
lassieky gaen to the farm o’ T’nowhead for 
the milk. She gangs ilka Saturday nicht. 
But what did ye say — twa jugs? Tod, let’s 
see! Ay, she has so, a big jug an’ a little 
ane. The little ane ’ll be for cream; an’, sal, 
the big ane’s bigger na usual.” 

“ There maun he something gaen on at the 
lawyer’s if they’re buyin’ cream, Leeby. 
Their reg’lar thing’s twopence worth o’ milk.” 

“Ay, hut I assure ye that sma’ jug’s for 
cream, an’ I dinna doot mysel’ but ’at there’s 
to be fower pence worth o’ milk this nicht.” 


ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 23 

“ There’s to be a puddin’ made the morn, 
Leeby. Ou, ay, a’ thing points to that; an’ 
we’re very sure there’s nae puddins at the law- 
yer’s on the Sabbath onless they hae company.” 

“ I dinna ken wha’ they can hae, if it be na 
that brither o’ the wife’s ’at bides oot by Aber- 
deen.” 

“Na, it’s no him, Leeby; na, na. He’s no 
weel to do, an’ they wouldna be buyin’ cream 
for ’im.” 

“I’ll run up to the attic again, an’ see if 
there’s ony stir at the lawyer’s hoose.” 

By-and-bye Leeby returned in triumph. 

“Ou, ay,” she said, “they’re expectin’ vees- 
itors at the lawyer’s, for I could see twa o’ the 
bairns dressed up to the nines, an’ Mistress 
Ogilvy doesna dress at them in that way for 
naething.” 

“It far beats me though, Leeby, to guess 
wha’s cornin’ to them. Ay, but stop a meen- 
ute, I wouldna wonder, no, really I would not 
wonder but what it’ll be ” 

“ The very thing ’at was passin’ through my 
head, mother.” 


24 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“Ye mean ’at the lad Wilkie ’ll be to bide 
wi’ the lawyer i’stead o’ wi’ Sam’l Duthie? 
Sal, am thinkin’ that’s it. Ye ken Sam’l an’ 
the lawyer married on cousins; hut Mistress 
Ogilvy ay lookit on Chirsty as dirt aneath her 
feet. She would be glad to get a minister, 
though, to the hoose, an’ so I warrant the lad 
Wilkie ’ll be to bide a’nicht at the law- 
yer’s.” 

“ But what would Chirsty be doin’ get tin’ the 
chintz an’ the fender in that case? ” 

“ Ou, she’d been expectin’ the lad, of course. 
Sal, she’ll be in a michty tantrum aboot this. 
I wouldna wonder though she gets Sam’l to 
gang ower to the U. P.’s.” 

Leeby went once more to the attic. 

“Ye’re wrang, mother,” she cried out. 
“ Whaever’s to preach the morn is to bide at 
the manse, for the minister’s servant’s been 
at Baker Duff’s buyin’ short-bread — half a 
lippy, nae doot.” 

“Are ye sure o’ that, Leeby?” 

“Oh, am certain. The servant gaed in to 
Duff’s the noo, an’ as ye ken fine, the manse 


ON THE TRACK OF THE MINISTER. 


25 


fowk doesna deal wi* him, except they’re 
wantin’ short-bread. He’s Auld Kirk.” 

Leeby returned to the kitchen, and Jess sat 
for a time ruminating. 

“The lad Wilkie,” she said at last, trium- 
phantly, “ ’ll be to bide at Lawyer Ogilvy’s ; 
but he’ll be gaen to the manse the morn for a 
tea-dinner.” 

“But what,” asked Leeby, “aboot the milk 
an’ the cream for the lawyer’s?” 

“ Ou, they’ll be hae’n a puddin’ for the sup- 
per the nicht. That’s a michty genteel thing, 
I’ve heard.” 

It turned out that Jess was right in every 
particular. 


CHAPTER III. 


PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 

Leeby was at the fire brandering a quarter 
of steak on the tongs, when the house was 
flung into consternation by Hendry’s casual 
remark that he had seen Tibbie Mealmaker in 
the town with her man. 

“The Lord preserve’s!” cried Leeby. 

Jess looked quickly at the clock. 

“Half fower!” she said excitedly. 

“Then it canna be dune,” said Leeby, fall- 
ing despairingly into a chair, “for they may 
be here ony meenute.” 

“It’s most michty,” said Jess, turning on her 
husband, “ ’at ye should tak’ a pleasure in 
bringin’ this hoose to disgrace. Hoo did ye 
no tell’s suner?” 

“I fair forgot,” Hendry answered, “but 
what’s a’ yer steer?” 


26 


PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 27 

Jess looked at me (she often did this) in a 
way that meant, “ What a man is this I’m 
tied to!” 

“ Steer 1” she exclaimed. “Is’t no time we 
was makkin’ a steer? They’ll be in for their 
tea ony meenute, an’ the room no sae muckle 
as sweepit. Ay, an’ me lookin’ like a sweep; 
an’ Tibbie Mealmaker ’at’s sae partikler gen- 
teel seein’ you sic a sicht as ye are! ” 

Jess shook Hendry out of his chair, while 
Leeby began to sweep with the one hand, and 
agitatedly to unbutton her wrapper with the 
other. 

“She didna see me,” said Hendry, sitting 
down forlornly on the table. 

“Get aff that table!’' cried Jess. “Seehaud 
o’ the besom,” she said to Leeby. 

“For mercy’s sake, mother,” said Leeby, 
“gie yer face a dicht, an’ put cn a clean 
mutch.” 

“I’ll open the door if they come afore you’re 
ready,” said Hendry, as Leeby pushed him 
against the dresser. 

“Yedaur to speak aboot openin’ the door, 


28 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


an’ you sic a mess!” cried Jess, with pins in 
her mouth. 

“Havers!” retorted Hendry. “A man can- 
na be aye washin’ at ’imsel’.” 

Seeing that Hendry was as much in the way 
as myself, I invited him upstairs to the attic, 
whence we heard Jess and Leeby upbraiding 
each other, shrilly. I was aware that the 
room was speckless; but for all that, Leeby 
was turning it upside down. 

“She’s aye ta’en like that,” Hendry said 
to me, referring to his wife, “when she’s ex- 
pectin’ company. Ay, it’s a peety she canna 
tak things cannier.” 

“Tibbie Mealmaker must be some one of 
importance? ” I asked. 

“Ou, she’s naething by the ord’nar’; but 
ye see she was mairit to a Tilliedrum man no 
lang syne, an’ they’re said to hae a michty 
grand establishment. Ay, they’ve a ward- 
robe spleet new; an’ what think ye Tibbie 
wears ilka day?” 

I shook my head. 

“It was Chirsty Miller ’at put it through 


PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 29 

the toon,” Hendry continued. “Chirsty was 
in Tilliedrum last Teisday or Wednesday, an 5 
Tibbie gae her a cup o’ tea. Ay, weel, Tibbie 
telt Chirsty ’at she wears hose ilka day.” 

“ Wears hose?” 

“Ay. It’s some michty grand kind o’ 
stockin’. I never heard o’t in this toon. Na, 
there’s naebody in Thrums ’at wears hose.” 

“And who did Tibbie get?” I asked; for in 
Thrums they say, “Wha did she get?” and 
“ Wha did he tak?” 

“His name’s Davit Curly. Ou, a crittur fu’ 
o’ maggots, an’ nae great match, for he’s 
juist the Tilliedrum bill-sticker.” 

At this moment Jess shouted from her chair 
(she was burnishing the society teapot as she 
spoke), “Mind, Hendry McQumpha, ’at upon 
nae condition are ye to mention the bill- 
s tickin’ afore Tibbie!” 

“Tibbie,” Hendry explained to me, “is a 
terrible vain tid, an’ doesna think the bill- 
stikin’ genteel. Ay, they say ’at if she meets 
Davit in the street wi’ his paste-pot an’ the 
brush in his hands she pretends no token ’im.” 


30 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


Every time Jess paused to think she cried 
up orders, such as — 

“Dinna call her Tibbie, mind ye. Always 
address her as Mistress Curly.” 

“Shak’ hands wi’ baith o’ them, an’ say ye 
hope they’re in the enjoyment o’ guid health.” 

“ Dinna put yer feet on the table.” 

“Mind, you’r no’ to mention ’at ye kent they 
were in the toon.” 

“When onybody passes ye yer tea say, 
‘Thank ye.’” 

“Dinna stir yer tea as if ye was churnin’ 
butter, nor let on at’ the scones is no our ain 
bakin’.” 

“If Tibbie says ony thing aboot the china yer 
no’ to say ’at we dinna use it ilka day.” 

“ Dinna .lean back in the big chair, for it’s 
broken, an’ Leeby’s gi’en it a lick o’ glue this 
meenute.” 

“ When Leeby gies ye a kick aneath the 
table, that’ll be a sign to ye to say grace.” 

Hendry looked at me apologetically while 
these instructions came up. 

“Iwinna dive my head wi’ sic nonsense,” 


PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY 31 

he said; “it’s no’ for a man body to be sae 
crammed fu’ o’ manners.” 

u ‘ Come awa doon,” Jess shouted to him, 
“an’ put on a clean dickey.” 

“I’ll better do’t to please her,” said Hendry, 
“ though for my ain part I dinna like the feel 
o’ a dickey on week-days. Na, they mak’s 
think it’s the Sabbath.” 

Ten minutes afterward I went downstairs 
to see how the preparations were progressing. 
Fresh muslin curtains had been put up in the 
room. The grand footstool, worked by Leeby, 
was so placed that Tibbie could not help seeing 
it ; and a fine cambric handkerchief, of which 
Jess was very proud, was hanging out of a 
drawer as if by accident. An antimacassar 
lying carelessly on the seat of a chair concealed 
a rent in the horse-hair, and the china orna- 
ments on the mantelpiece were so placed that 
they looked whole. Leeby ’s black merino was 
hanging near the window in a good light, and 
Jess’ Sabbath bonnet, which was never worn, 
occupied a nail beside it. The tea-things stood 
on a tray in the kitchen bed, whence they 


82 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 

could be quickly brought into the room, just 
as if they were always ready to be used daily. 
Leeby, as yet en deshabille , was shaving her 
father at a tremendous rate, and Jess, looking 
as fresh as a daisy, was ready to receive the 
visitors. She was peering through the tiny 
window -blind looking for them. 

“Be cautious, Leeby,” Hendry was saying, 
when J ess shook her hand at him. “ Wheesht, ” 
she whispered; “they’re cornin’.” 

Hendry was hustled into his Sabbath coat, 
and then came a tap at the door, a very genteel 
tap. Jess nodded to Leeby, who softly shoved 
Hendry into the room. 

The tap was repeated, but Leeby pushed her 
father into a chair and thrust Barrow’s Ser- 
mons open into his hand. Then she stole but 
the house, and swiftly buttoned her wrapper, 
speaking to Jess by nods the while. There 
was a third knock, whereupon Jess said, in a 
loud, Englishy voice : 

“Was that not a chap (knock) at the door?” 

Hendry was about to reply, but she shook 
her fist at him. Next moment Leeby opened 


PREPARING TO RECEIVE COMPANY. 33 

the door. I was upstairs, but I heard Jess 
say: 

“ Dear me, if it’s not Mrs. Curly — and Mr. 
Curly! And hoo are ye? Come in, by. 
Weel, this is, indeed, a pleasant surprise!” 

3 


CHAPTER IV. 


WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. 

Jess had gone early to rest, and the door of 
her bed in the kitchen was pulled to. From 
her window I saw Hendry buying dulse. 

Now and again the dulseman wheeled his 
slimy boxes to the top of the brae, and sat 
there stolidly on the shafts of his barrow. 
Many passed him by, but occasionally some 
one came to rest by his side. Unless the 
customer was loquacious, there was no bandy- 
ing of words, and Hendry merely unbuttoned 
his east-trouser pocket, giving his body the 
angle at which the pocket could be most easi- 
ly filled by the dulseman. He then deposited 
his halfpenny, and moved on. Neither had 
spoken ; yet in the country they would have 
roared their predictions about to-morrow to a 

ploughman half a field away. 

34 


WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. 35 

Dulse is roasted by twisting it round the 
tongs fired to a red-heat, and the house was 
soon heavy with the smell of burning sea- 
weed. Leeby was at the dresser munching it 
from a broth-plate, while Hendry, on his knees 
at the fireplace, gingerly tore off the blades of 
dulse that were sticking to the tongs, and 
licked his singed fingers. 

“ Whaur’s yer mother? ” he asked Leeby. 

“Ou,” said Leeby, “whaur would she be 
but in her bed? ” 

Hendry took the tongs to the door, and 
would have cleaned them himself, had not 
Leeby (who often talked his interfering ways 
over with her mother) torn them from his 
hands. 

“Leeby! ” cried Jess at that moment. 

“Ay,” answered Leeby, leisurely, not no- 
ticing, as I happened to do, that Jess spoke in 
an agitated voice. 

“What is’t?” asked Hendry, who liked to 
be told things. 

He opened the door of the bed. 

“Yer mother’s no weel,” he said to Leeby. 


86 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Leeby ran to the bed, and I went ben the 
house. 

In another two minutes we were a group of 
four in the kitchen, staring vacantly. Death 
could not have startled us more, tapping thrice 
that quiet night on the window-pane. 

“It’s diphtheria!” said Jess, her hands 
trembling as she buttoned her wrapper. 

She looked at me, and Leeby looked at me. 

“It’s no, it’s no!” cried Leeby, and her voice 
was as a fist shaken at my face. She blamed 
me for hesitating in my reply. But ever since 
this malady left me a lonely dominie for life, 
diphtheria has been a knockdown word for me. 
Jess had discovered a great white spot on her 
throat. I knew the symptoms. 

“Is’t dangerous?” asked Hendry, who once 
had a headache years before, and could still 
refer to it as a reminiscence. 

“Them J at has J t never recovers,” said Jess, 
sitting down very quietly. A stick fell from 
the fire, and she bent forward to replace it. 

“ They do recover !” cried I^eeby, again turn* 
ing angry eyes on me. 


WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. SI 

I could not face her ; I had known so many 
who did not recover. She put her hands on 
her mother’s shoulder. 

“Mebbe ye would be better in yer bed, ’’sug- 
gested Hendry. 

No one spoke. 

“When I had the headache,” said Hendry, 
“I was better in my bed.” 

Leeby had taken Jess’ hand — a worn old 
hand that had many a time gone out in love 
and kindness when younger hands were cold. 
Poets have sung and fighting men have done 
great deeds for hands that never had such a 
record. 

“If ye could eat something,” said Hendry, 
“I would gae to the flesher’s for ’t. I mind 
when I had the headache, hoo a small steak — ” 

“Gae awa for the doctor, ray ther,” broke 
in Leeby. 

Jess started, for sufferers think there is less 
hope for them after the doctor has been called 
in to pronounce sentence. 

“Iwinna hae the doctor,” she said, anx- 
iously. 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


In answer to Leeby’s nods, Hendry slowly 
pulled out his boots from beneath the table, 
and sat looking at them, preparatory to put- 
ting them on. He was beginning at last to be 
a little scared, though his face did not show it. 

“I winna hae ye,” cried Jess, getting to her 
feet, “gaen to the doctor’s sic a sicht. Yer 
coat’s a’ yarn.” 

“ Havers,” said Hendry, but Jess became 
frantic. 

I offered to go for the doctor, but while I 
was upstairs looking for my bonnet I heard the 
door slam. Leeby had become impatient and 
darted off herself, buttoning her jacket prob- 
ably as she ran. When I returned to the 
kitchen, Jess and Hendry were still by the fire. 
Hendry was beating a charred stick into 
sparks, and his wife sat with her hands in her 
lap. I saw Hendry look at her once or twice, 
but he could think of nothing to say. His 
terms of endearment had died out thirty-nine 
years before with his courtship. He had for- 
gotten the words. For his life he could not 
have crossed over to Jess and put his arm 


WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. 


39 


round her. Yet he was uneasy. His eyes 
wandered round the poorly lit room. 

“Will ye hae a drink o’ water? ” he asked. 

There was a sound of footsteps outside. 

“That’ll be him,” said Hendry in a whisper. 

Jess started to her feet, and told Hendry to 
help her ben the house. 

The steps died away, but I fancied that Jess, 
now highly strung, had gone into hiding, and 
I went after her. I was mistaken. She had 
lit the room-lamp, turning the crack in the 
globe to the wall. The sheepskin hearth-rug, 
which was generally carefully packed away 
beneath the bed, had been spread out before 
the empty fireplace, and Jess was on the arm- 
chair hurriedly putting on her grand black 
mutch with the pink flowers. 

“I was juist makkin’ myseP respectable,” 
she said, but without life in her voice. 

This was the only time I ever saw her in the 
1 room. 

Leeby returned panting to say that the 
doctor might be expected in an hour. He was 
away among the hills- 


40 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


The hour passed reluctantly. Leeby lit a 
fire ben the house, and then put on her Sab- 
bath dress. She sat with her mother in the 
room. Never before had I seen Jess sit so 
quietly, for her way was to work until, as she 
said herself, she was ready “to fall into her 
bed.” 

Hendry wandered between the rooms, always 
in the way when Leeby ran to the window to 
see if that was the doctor at last. He would 
stand gaping in the middle of the room for 
five minutes, then slowly withdraw to stand 
as drearily but the house. His face lengthened. 
At last he sat down by the kitchen fire, a Bible 
in his hand. It lay open on his knee, but he 
did not read much. He sat there with his legs 
outstretched, looking straight before him. I 
believe he saw Jess young again. His face 
was very solemn, and his mouth twitched. 
The fire sank into ashes unheeded. 

I sat alone at my attic window for hours, 
waiting for the doctor. From the attic I 
could see nearly all Thrums, but, until very 
late, the night was dark, and the brae, except 


WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR . 41 

immediately before the door, was blurred and 
dim. A sheet of light canopied the square as 
long as a cheap Jack paraded his goods there. 
It was gone before the moon came out. 
Figures tramped, tramped up the brae, passed 
the house in shadow and stole silently on. 
A man or boy whistling seemed to fill the 
valley. The moon arrived too late to be of 
service to any wayfarer. Everybody in 
Thrums was asleep but ourselves, and the 
doctor who never came. 

About midnight Hendry climbed the attic 
stair and joined me at the window. His hand 
was shaking as he pulled back the blind. I 
began to realize that his heart could still 
overflow. 

“ She’s waur,” he whispered, like one who 
had lost his voice. 

For a long time he sat silently, his hand on 
the blind. He was so different from the 
Hendry I had known that I felt myself in the 
presence of a strange man. His eyes were 
glazed with staring at the turn of the brae 
where the doctor must first come into sight. 


42 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


His breathing became heavier till it was a 
gasp. Then I put my hand on his shoulder, 
and he stared at me. 

“Nine-and-thirty years come June,” he said, 
speaking to himself. 

For this length of time, I knew, he and 
Jess had been married. He repeated the words 
at intervals. 

“I mind — ” he began, and stopped. He was 
thinking of the spring-time of Jess’ life. 

The night ended as we watched ; then came 
the terrible moment that precedes the day — 
the moment known to shuddering watchers by 
sick beds, when a chill wind cuts through the 
house, and the world without seems cold in 
death. It is as if the heart of the earth did 
not mean to continue beating. 

“This is a fearsome nicht,” Hendry said 
hoarsely. 

He turned to grope his way to the stairs, 
but suddenly went down on his knees to 
pray. . . . 

There was a quick step outside. I arose in 
time to see the doctor on the brae. He tried 


WAITING FOR THE DOCTOR. 43 

the latch, hut Leeby was there to show him 
in. 

The door of the room closed on him. 

From the top of the stair I could see into the 
dark passage, and make out Hendry shaking 
at the door. I could hear the doctor’s voice, 
but not the words he said. There was a pain- 
ful silence, and then Leeby laughed joyously. 

“It’s gone,” cried Jess; “the white spot’s 
gone! Ye juist touched it, an’ it’s gone! Tell 
Hendry.” 

But Hendry did not need to be told. As 
Jess spoke I heard him say, huskily: “Thank 
God !” and then he tottered back to the kitchen. 
When the doctor left, Hendry was sill on 
Jess’ arm-chair, trembling like a man with the 
palsy. Ten minutes afterward I was prepar- 
ing for bed, when he cried up the stair : 

“Come awa’ doon.” 

I joined the family party in the room: 
Hendry was sitting close to Jess. 

“Let us read,” he said, firmly, “in the four- 
teenth of John.” 


CHAPTER V, 


A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. 

After the eight o’clock hell had rung, Hen- 
dry occasionally crossed over to the farm of 
T’nowhead and sat on the pig-sty. If no one 
joined him he scratched the pig, and returned 
home gradually. Here what was almost a 
club held informal meetings, at which two or 
four, or even half a dozen assembled to debate, 
when there was any one to start them. The 
meetings were only memorable when Tammas 
Haggartwas in fettle, to pronounce judgments 
in his well-known sarcastic way. Sometimes 
he had got off the pig-sty to separate before 
Tammas was properly yoked. There we 
might remain a long time, planted round him 
like trees, for he was a mesmerizing talker. 

There was a pail belonging to the pig-sty, 

which some one would turn bottom upward 
44 


A HUMORIST ON IIIS CALLING. 45 

and sit upon if the attendance was unusually 
numerous. Tammas liked, however, to put a 
foot on it now and again in the full swing of a 
harangue, and when he paused for a sarcasm 
I have seen the pail kicked toward him. He 
had the wave of the arm that is so convincing in 
argument, and such a natural way of asking 
questions, that an audience not used to public 
speaking might have thought he wanted them 
to reply* It is an undoubted fact that, when 
he went on the platform, at the time of the 
election, to heckle the colonel, he paused in 
the middle of his questions to take a drink out 
of the tumbler of water which stood on the 
table. As soon as they saw what he was up 
to, the spectators raised a ringing cheer. 

On concluding his perorations, Tammas sent 
his snuff-mull round, but we had our own way 
of passing him a vote of thanks. One of the 
company would express amazement at his gift 
of words, and the others would add, “Man, 
man,” or, “Ye cow, Tammas,” or, “What a 
crittur ye are !” all which ejaculations meant 
the same thing. A new subject being thus 


46 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


ingeniously introduced, Tammas again put 
his foot on the pail. 

“I tak no creedit,” he said, modestly, on the 
evening, I remember, of Willie Pyatt’s funeral, 
“in bein’ able to speak wi’ a sort o’ faceelity 
on topics ’at I’ve made my ain.” 

“Ay,” said T’nowhead, “but it’s no the 
faceelity o’ speakin’ ’at taks me. There’s 
Davit Lunan ’at can speak like as if he had 
learned it aff a paper, an’ yet I canna thole 
’im.” 

“Davit,” said Hendry, “doesna speak in a 
wy ’at a body can follow ’im. He doesna gae 
even on. Jess says he’s juist like a man ay at 
the cross-roads, an’ no sure o’ his wy. But the 
stock has words, an’ no ilka body has that.” 

“If I was bidden to put Tammas’ gift in a 
word,” said T’nowhead, “I would say ’at he 
had a wy. That’s what I would say.” 

“Weel, I suppose I have,” Tammas ad- 
mitted, “but, wy or no wy, I couldna put a 
point on my words if it wasna for my sense o’ 
humor. Lads, humor’s what gies the nip to 
speakin’.” 


A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. 47 

“ It’s what makes ye a sarcesticist, Tammas, ” 
said Hendry; “but what I wonder at is yer 
say in’ the humorous things sae aisy like. 
Some says ye mak them up aforehand, hut I 
ken that’s no true.” 

“No only is’t no true,” said Tammas, “but 
it couldna be true. Them ’at says sic things, 
an’, weel I ken you’re meanin’ Davit Lunan, 
hasna nae idea o’ what humor is. It’s a thing 
’at spouts oot o’ its ain accord. Some o’ the 
maist humorous things I’ve ever said cam oot, 
as a body may say, by themsels.” 

“I suppose that’s the case, ’’said T’nowhead, 
“a’ yet it maun be you ’at brings them up?” 

“ There’s no nae doubt aboot its bein’ the 
case,” said Tammas, “for I’ve watched mysel’ 
often. There was a vara guid instance oc- 
curred sune after I married Easie. The earl’s 
son met me one day, aboot that time, i’ the 
Tenements, an’ he didna ken ’at Chirsty was 
deid, an’ I’d married again. ‘Well, Haggart,’ 
he says, in his frank wy, ‘and how is your 
wife?’ ‘She’s vara weel, sir,’ I maks answer, 
‘but she’s no the ane you mean.’ ” 


48 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“Na, he meant Chirsty,” said Hendry. 

“Is that a’ the story?” asked T’nowhead. 

Tammas had been looking at us queerly. 

“ There’s no nane o’ ye lauchin’,” he said, 
“but I can assure ye the earl’s son gaed east 
the toon lauchin’ like ony thing.” 

“But what was’t he lauched at?” 

“ Ou,” said Tammas, “ a humorist doesna tell 
whaur the humor comes in.” 

“ No, but when you said that, did ye mean 
it to be humorous?” 

“Am no sayin’ I did, but as I’ve beentellin’ 
ye humor spouts oot by itsel’.” 

“Ay, but do ye ken noo what the earl’s son 
' gaed awa lauchin’ at?” 

Tammas hesitated. 

“I dinna exactly see’ t,” he confessed, “but 
that’s no an oncommon thing. A humorist 
would often no ken ’at he was ane if it wasna 
by the wy he maks other fowk lauch. A body 
canna be expeckit baith to mak the joke an’ to* 
see’t. Na, that would be doin’ twa fowks’ 
wark.” 

“Weel, that’s reasonable enough, but I’ve 


A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. 49 

often seen ye lauchin,” said Hendry, “lang 
afore other fowk lauched.” 

“Nae doubt,” Tammas explained, “ an that’s 
because humor has twa sides, juist like a penny - 
piece. When I say a humorous thing my- 
sel’ I’m dependent on other fowk to tak note o’ 
the humor o’t bein’ mysel’ ta’en up wi’ the 
makkin’ o’t. Ay, but there’s things I see an’ 
hear ’at maks me lauch, an’ that’s the other 
side o’ humor.” 

“I never heard it put sae plain afore,” said 
T’nowhead, “an’, sal, am no nane sure but 
what am a humorist too.” 

“Na, na, no you, T’nowhead,” said Tam- 
mas hotly. 

“ Weel,” continued the farmer, “I never set 
up for bein’ a humorist, hut I can juist assure 
ye ’at I lauch at queer things too. No lang 
syne I woke up i’ my bed lauchin’ like ony- 
thing, an’ Lisbeth thocht I wasna weel. It 
was something I dreamed ’at made me lauch ; 
I couldna think what it was, but I lauched 
richt. Was that no fell like a humorist?” 

“That was neither here nor there,” said 
4 


50 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Tammas. “Na, dreams dinna coont,for we’re 
no responsible for them. Ay, an’ what’s mair 
the mere lauchin’s no the important side o’ 
humor, even though ye hinna to he telt to 
tauch. The important side’s the other side, 
the sayin’ the humorous things I’ll tell ye 
what: the humorist’s like a man firin’ at a 
target — he doesna ken whether he hits or no 
till them at the target tells ’im.” 

“ I would be of opeenion,” said Hendry, who 
was one of Tammas’ most stanch admirers, 
“ ’at another mark o’ the rale humorist was 
his seein’ humor in all things?” 

Tammas shook his head — a way he had 
when Hendry advanced theories. 

“I dinna haud wi’ that ava,” he said. “I 
ken fine ’at Davit Lunan gaes aboot sayin’ he 
sees humor in everything, but there’s nae 
surer sign ’at he’s no a genuine humorist. 
Na, the rale humorist kens vara weel ’at 
there’s subjects withoot a spark o’ humor in 
them. When a subject rises to the sublime it 
should be regairded philosophically, an’ no 
humorously. Davit would lauch at the 


A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. 51 

grandest thochts, whaur they only fill the true 
humorist wi’ awe. I’ve found it necessary to 
rebuke ’im at times whaur his lauchin’ was 
oot o’ place. He pretended aince on this vara 
spot to see humor i’ the origin o’ cock-fight- 
in V’ 

“Did he, man?” said Hendry; “I wasna 
here. But what is the origin o’ cock- 
f editin’?” 

“It was a’ i’ the Cheap Magazine” said 
T’nowhead. 

“Was I sayin’ it wasna?” demanded Tarn- 
mas. “It was through me readin’ the account 
oot o’ the Cheap Magazine ’at the discussion 
arose.” 

“ But what said the Cheapy was the origin 
o’ cock- fech tin’ ? ” 

“T’nowhead ’ll tell ye,” answered Tammas; 
“he says I dinna ken.” 

“I never said naething o’ the kind,” re- 
turned T’nowhead, indignantly; “I mind o’ 
ye readin’t oot fine.” 

“Ay, weel,” said Tammas, “that’s a’ richt. 
Ou, the origin o’ cock-fightin’ gangs back to 


53 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


the time o’ the Greek wars, a thoosand or twa 
years syne, mair or less. There was ane, Mil- 
tiades by name, ’at was the captain o’ the 
Greek army, an’ one day he led them doon the 
mountains to attack the biggest army ’at was 
ever gathered thegither.” 

“They were Persians,” interposed T ’now- 
head. 

“Are you tellin’ the story, or am I? ” asked 
Tammas. “ I kent fine ’at they were Persians. 
Weel, Miltiades had the matter o’ twenty 
thoosand men wi’ ’im, and when they got to 
the foot o’ the mountain, behold there was two 
cocks fechtin’.” 

“Man, man,” said Hendry, “an’ was there 
cocks in thac days? ” 

“ Ondoubtedly, ” said Tammas, “orhoo could 
thae twa hae been fechtin’? ” 

“Ye have me there, Tammas,” admitted 
Hendry. “Ye’re perfectly richt.” 

“Ay, then,” continued the stone-breaker, 
“when Miltiades saw the cocks at it wi’ all 
their micht, he stopped the army and ad- 
dressed it. ‘Behold!’ he cried, at the top o’ 


A HUMORIST ON HIS CALLING. 53 

his voice, ‘these cocks do not fight for their 
household gods nor for the monuments of 
their ancestors, nor for glory, nor for liberty, 
nor for their children, but only because the 
one will not give way unto the other.’” 

“It was nobly said,” declared Hendry; “na, 
cocks wouldna hae sae muckle understandin’ 
as to fecht for thae things. I wouldna won- 
der but what it was some laddies ’at set them 
at ane another.” 

“ Hendry doesna see what Miltydes was af- 
ter,” said T’nowhead. 

“Ye’ve taen’t up wrang, Hendry,” Tammas 
explained. “What Miltiades meant ’at if 
cocks could fecht saeweeloot o’ mere deviltry, 
surely the Greeks would fecht terrible for their 
gods an’ their bairns an’ the other things.” 

“ I see, I see ; but what was the monuments 
o’ their ancestors? ” 

“Ou, that was the gravestanes they put up 
i’ their kirkyards.” 

“ I wonder the other billies would want to 
tak them awa. They would be a michty 
wecht.” 


54 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“Ay, but they wanted them, an’ nat’rally 
the Greeks stuck to the stanes they paid for.” 

“So, so, an’ did Davit Lunan mak oot’ at 
there was humor in that? ” 

“He do so. He said it was a humorous 
thing to think o’ a hale army lookin’ on at 
twa cocks fechtin. ’ I assure ye I telt ’im ’at 
I saw nae humor in’t. It was ane o’ the most 
impressive sichts ever seen by man, an’ the 
Greeks was sae inspired by what Miltiades 
said ’at they sweepit the Persians oot o’ their 
country.” 

We all agreed that Tammas’ was the gen- 
uine humor. 

“An’ an enviable possession it is, ’’said Hen- 
dry. 

“In a wy,” admitted Tammas, “but no in 
a’ wys.” 

He hesitated, and then added in a low voice t 

“As sure as death, Hendry, it sometimes 
taks grip o’ me i’ the kirk itsel’, an’ I can 
hardly keep frae lauchin’.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

BEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 

In the lustiness of youth there are many 
who cannot feel that they, too, will die. The 
first fear stops the heart. Even then they 
would keep death at arm’s fength by making 
believe to disown him. Loved ones are taken 
away, and the boy, the girl, will not speak of 
them, as if that made the conqueror’s triumph 
the less. In time the fire in the breast burns 
low, and then in the last glow of the embers, 
it is sweeter to hold what has been than to 
think of what may be. 

Twenty years had passed since Joey ran 
down the brae to play. Jess, his mother, 
shook her staff fondly at him. A cart rum- 
bled by, the driver nodding on the shaft. It 
rounded the corner and stopped suddenly, and 

then a woman screamed. A handful of men 

55 


% 


56 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


carried Joey’s dead body to his mother, and 
that was the tragedy of Jess’ life. 

Twenty years ago, and still Jess sat at the 
window, and still she heard that woman 
scream. Every other living being had forgot- 
ten Joey; even to Hendry he was now scarcely 
a name, but there were times when Jess’ face 
quivered and her old arms went out for her 
dead boy. 

“ God’s will be done,” she said, “but oh, 
I grudged him my bairn terrible sair. I dinna 
want him back noo, an’ ilka day is takkin’ me 
nearer to him, but for mony a lang year I 
grudged him sair, sair. He was juist five 
minutes gone, an’ they brocht him back deid 
my Joey.” 

On the Sabbath day Jess could not go to 
church, and it was then, I think, that she was 
with Joey most. There was often a blessed 
serenity on her face, when we returned, that 
only comes to those who have risen from their 
knees with their prayers answered. Then she 
was very close to the boy who died. Long ago 
she could not look out from her window upon 


DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 57 

the brae, but now it was her seat in church. 
There on the Sabbath evenings she sometimes 
talked to me of Joey. 

“It’s been a fine day, ’’she would say, “juist 
like that day. I thank the Lord for the sun- 
shine noo, but oh, I thocht at the time I 
couldna look at the sun shinin’ again.” 

“In all Thrums,” she has told me, and I 
know it to be true, “there’s no a better man 
than Hendry. There’s them ’at’s cleverer in 
the wys o’ the world, but my man, Hendry 
McQumpha, never did naething in all his life 
’at wasna weel intended, an’ though his words 
is common, it’s to the Lord he looks. I canna 
think but what Hendry’s pleasin’ to God. Oh, 
I dinna ken what to say wi’ thankfulness to 
him when I mind hoo guid he’s been to me. 
There’s Leeby ’at I couldna hae done withoot, 
me bein’ sae silly (weak bodily), an’ ay Leeby ’s 
stuck by me an’ gien up her life, as ye micht 
say, for me. Jamie ” 

But then Jess sometimes broke down. 

“He’s so far awa,” she said, after a time, 
“an’ aye when he gangs back to London after 


58 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


his holidays he has a fear he’ll never see me 
again, but he’s terrified to mention it, an’ I 
juist ken by the wy he taks haud o’ me, an’ 
comes runnin’ back to tak haud o’ me again. 
I ken fine what he’s thinkin, ’ hut I daurna 
speak. 

“Guid is no word for what Jamie has been 
to me, hut he wasna horn till after Joey died. 
When we got Jamie, Hendry took to whistlin’ 
again at the loom, an’ Jamie juist filled Joey’s 
place to him. Ay, but naebody could fill Joey’s 
place to me. It’s different to a man. A 
bairn’s no the same to him, but a fell bit o’ 
me was buried in my laddie’s grave. 

“ Jamie an’ Joey was never nane the same 
nature. It was aye something in a shop, 
Jamie wanted to be, an’ he never cared 
muckle for his books, but Joey hankered after 
being a minister, young as he was, an’ a min- 
ister Hendry an’ me would hae done our best 
to mak him. Mony, mony a time after he 
came in frae the kirk on the Sabbath he would 
stand up at this very window and wave his 
hands in a reverent way, juist like the min- 


DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. % 53 

ister. His first text was to be ‘Thou God 
seest me . 5 

“Ye’ll wonder at me, but I’ve sat here in 
the lang fore-nichts dreamin’ ’at Joey was a 
grown man noo, an’ ’at I was puttin’ on my 
bonnet to come to the kirk to hear him preach. 
Even as far back as twenty years an’ mair I 
wasna able to gang aboot, but Joey would say 
to me, ‘We’ll get a carriage to ye, mother, so 
’at ye can come and hear me preach on “ Thou 
God seest me.’” He would say to me, ‘It 
doesna do, mother, for the minister in the pul- 
pit to nod to ony o’ the fowk, but I’ll gie ye a 
look an’ ye’ll ken it’s me.’ Oh, Joey, I would 
hae gien you a look too, an’ ye would hae kent 
what I was thinkin’. He often said, ‘Ye’ll be 
proud o’ me, will ye no’ mother, when ye see 
me cornin’ sailin’ alang to the pulpit in my 
gown? ’ So I would hae been proud o’ him, 
an’ I was proud to hear him speakin’ o’t. 
‘The other fowk,’ he said, ‘will be sit tin’ in 
their seats wonderin’ what my text’s to be, 
but you’ll ken, mother, an’ you’ll turn up to 
“ Thou God seest me,” afore I gie oot the chap* 


60 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


ter. 5 Ay, but that day he was coffined* for 
all the minister prayed, I found it hard to say 
‘Thou God seest me.’ It’s the text I like best 
noo, though, an’ when Hendry an’ Leeby is at 
the kirk, I turn’t up often, often in the Bible. 
I read frae the beginnin’ o’ the chapter, but 
when I come to ‘Thou God seest me,’ I stop. 
Na, it’s no ’at there’s ony rebellion to the Lord 
in my heart noo, for I ken he was lookin’ doon 
when the cart gaed ower Joey, an’ he wanted 
to tak my laddie to himsel’. But juist when I 
come to ‘Thou God seest me,’ I let the book lie 
in my lap, for aince a body’s sure o’ that 
they’re sure o’ all. Ay, ye’ll laugh, but I 
think, mebbe juist because I was his mother, 
’at though Joey never lived to preach in a kirk, 
he’s preached frae ‘Thou God seest me’ to me. 
I dinna ken ’at I would ever hae been sae sure 
o’ that if it hadna been for him, an’ so I think 
I see ’im sailin’ doon to the pulpit juist as he 
said he would do. I seen him gien me the 
look he spoke o’ — ay, he looks my wy first, an’ 
I ken it’s him. Naebody sees him but me, but 
I see him gien me the look he promised. He’s 


DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 61 

so terrible near me, an’ him dead, ’at when 
my time comes I’ll be rale willin’ to go. I 
dinna say that to Jamie, because he all trem- 
bles; but I’m auld noo, an’ I’m no nane loth 
to gang.” 

Jess’ staff probably had a history before it 
became hers, for, as known to me, it was al- 
ways old and black. If we studied them suf- 
ficiently we might discover that staves age 
perceptibly just as the hair turns gray. At 
the risk of being thought fanciful I dare to say 
that in inanimate objects, as in ourselves, 
there is honorable and shameful old age, and 
that to me Jess’ staff was a symbol of the 
good, the true. It rested against her in the 
window, and she was so helpless without it 
when on her feet, that to those who saw much 
of her it was part of herself. The staff was 
very short, nearly a foot having been cut, as I 
think she once told me herself, from the orig- 
inal, of which to make a porridge thieval (or 
stick with which to stir porridge), and in mov- 
ing Jess leant heavily on it. Had she stood 
erect it would not have touched the floor. 


62 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


This was the staff that Jess shook to joyfully 
at her hoy the forenoon in May when he ran 
out to his death. Joey, however, was associ- 
ated in Jess’ memory with her staff in less 
painful ways. When she spoke of him she 
took the dwarf of a staff in her hands and 
looked at it softly. 

“It’s hard to me,” she would say, “to be- 
lieve ’at twa an’ twenty years hae come and 
gone since the nicht Joey hod (hid) my staff. 
Ay, but Hendry was straucht in thae days by 
what he is noo, an’ Jamie wasna born. Twa 
an’ twenty years come the back end o’ the 
year, an’ it wasna thocht ’at I could live 
through the winter. ‘Ye’ll no last mair than 
anither month, Jess,’ was what my sister Bell 
said, when she came to see me, and yet here I 
am aye sit tin’ at my window, an’ Bell’s been 
i’ the kirkyard this dozen years. 

“Leeby was saxteen month younger than 
Joey, an’ mair quiet like. Her heart was 
juist set on helpin’ aboot the hoose, an’ though 
she was but fower year auld she could kindle 
the fire an’ red up (clean up) the room. 


DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 63 

Leeby’s been my savin’ ever since she was 
fower year auld. Ay, but it was Joey ’at 
hung aboot me maist, an’ he took notice ’at I 
wasna gaen out as I used to do. Since sune 
after my marriage I’ve needed the stick, but 
there was days ’at I could gang across the road 
an’ sit on a stane. Joey kent there was some' 
thing wrang when I had to gie that up, an’ 
syne he noticed ’at I couldna even gang to the 
window unless Hendry kind o’ carried me. 
Na, ye wouldna think ’at there could hae been 
days when Hendry did that, but he did. He 
was a sort o’ ashamed if ony o’ the neighbors 
saw him so affectionate like, but he was terri- 
ble taen up aboot me. His loom was doon at 
T’nowhead’s, Bell’s father’s, an’ often he cam 
awa up to see if I was ony better. He didna 
lat on to the other weavers ’at he was cornin’ 
to see what like I was. Na, he juist said he’d 
forgotten a pirn, or his cruizey lamp, or ony- 
thing. Ah, but he didna mak nae pretence 
o’ no carin’ for me aince he was inside the 
hoose. He came crawlin’ to the bed no to 
wauken me if I was sleepin’, an’ mony a time 


64 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


I made belief ’at I was, juist to please him. 
It was an awfu’ business on him to hae a 
young wife sae helpless, but he wasna the 
man to cast that at me. I mind o’ sayin’ to 
him one day in my bed, ‘Ye made a poor bar- 
gain, Hendry, when ye took me.’ But he 
says, ‘Not one soul in Thrums ’ll daur say that 
to me but yersel’, Jess. Na, na, my dawty, 
you’re the wuman o’ my choice; there’s juist 
one wuman i’ the warld to me, an’ that’s you, 
my ain Jess.’ Twa an’ twenty years syne. 
Ay, Hendry called me fond like names, thae 
no everyday names. What a straucht man 
he was ! 

“ The doctor had said he could do no more 
for me, an’ Hendry was the only ane ’at didna 
gie me up. The bairns, of course, didna un- 
derstand and Joey would come into the bed 
an’ play on the top o’ me. Hendry would hae 
ta’en him awa, but I liked to hae ’im. Ye 
see, we was lang married afore we had a 
bairn, an’ though I couldna bear ony other 
weight on me, Joey didna hurt me, somehoo. 
I liked to hae ’im so close to me. 


DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 65 

“It was through that ’at he came to bury 
my staff. I couldna help often thinkin’ o’ 
what like the hoose would be when I was gone, 
an’ aboot Leeby an’ Joey left so young. So, 
when I could say it without greetin’, I said to 
Joey ’at I was goin’ far awa, an’ would he he 
a terrible guid laddie to his father and Leeby 
when I was gone? He aye juist said, ‘Dinna 
gang, mother, dinna gang, ’ but one day Hendry 
came in frae his loom, and says Joey, ‘ Father, 
whaur’s my mother gaen to, awa frae us? ’ 
I’ll never forget Hendry’s face. His mooth 
juist opened an’ shut twa or three times, an’ 
he walked quick ben to the room. I cried oot 
to him to come hack, but he didna come, so I 
sent Joey for him. Joey came runnin’ back 
to me sayin’, ‘ Mother, mother, am awfu’ fleid 
(frightened), for my father’s greetin’ sair.’ 

“A’ thae things took a haud o’ Joey, an’ he 
ended in gien us a fleg (fright) . I was sleepin’ 
ill at the time, an’ Hendry was ben sleepin’ in 
the room wi’ Leeby, Joey bein’ wi’ me. Ay, 
weel, one nicht I woke up in the dark an’ put 

oot my hand to ’im, an’ he wasna there, I 

5 


66 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


sat up wi’ a terrible start, an’ syne I kent by 
the cauld ’at the door maun be open. I cried 
oot quick to Hendry, but he was a soond 
sleeper, an’ he didna hear me. Ay, I dinna 
ken hoo I did it, but I got ben to the room an’ 
I shook him up. I was near daft wi’ fear 
when I saw Leeby wasna there either. Hen- 
dry couldna tak it in a’ at aince, but sune he 
had his trousers on, an’ he made me lie down 
on his bed. He said he wouldna move till I 
did it, or I wouldna hae dune it. As sune 
as he was oot o’ the hoose crying their names 
I sat up in my bed listenin’. Sune I heard 
speakin’, an’ in a minute Leeby comes run- 
nin’ in to me, roarin’ an’ greetin’. She was 
barefeeted, and had juist her nichtgown on, 
an’ her teeth was chatterin. ’ I took her into 
the bed, but it was an hour afore she could tell 
me onything, she was in sic a state. 

“ Sune after Hendry came in carryin’ Joey. 
Joey was as naked as Leeby, and as cauld as 
lead, but he wasna greetin’. Instead o’ that 
he was awfu’ satisfied like, and for all Hendry 
threatened to lick him he wouldna tell what 


DEAD THIS TWENTY YEARS. 67 

he an 5 Leeby had been doin’. He says, 
though, says he, ‘Ye’ll no gang awa noo, 
mother; no, ye’ll bide noo.” My bonny lad- 
die, I didna fathom him at the time. 

“It was Leeby ’at I got it frae. Ye see, 
Joey had never seen me gaen ony gait withoot 
my staff, an’ he thocht if he hod it I wouldna 
be able to gang awa. Ay, he planned it all 
oot, though he was but a bairn, an’ lay 
watchin’ me in my bed till I fell asleep. Syne 
he creepit oot o’ the bed, an’ got the staff, and 
gaed ben for Leeby. She was fleid, but he said 
it was the only wy to mak me ’at I couldna 
gang awa. It was juist ower there whaur 
thae cabbages is ’at he dug the hole wi’ a 
spade, an’ buried the staff. Hendry dug it 
up next mornin’.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. 

On a Thursday Pete Lownie was buried, and 
when Hendry returned from the funeral Jess 
asked if Davit Lunan had been there. 

“Na,” said Hendry, who was shut up in the 
closet-bed, taking off his blacks, “ I heard tell 
he wasna bidden.” 

“Yea, yea,” said Jess, nodding to me sig- 
nificantly. “Ay, weel,” she added, “we’ll be 
hae’n Tibbie ower here on Saturday to deve’s 
(weary us) to death aboot it.” 

Tibbie, Davit’s wife, was sister to Marget, 
Pete’s widow, and she generally did visit Jess 
on Saturday night to talk about Marget, who 
was fast becoming one o’ the most fashionable 
persons in Thrums. Tibbie was hopelessly 
plebeian. She was none o’ your proud kind, 

and if I entered the kitchen when she was there 
63 


THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. 69 

she pretended not to see me, so that, if I chose, 
I might escape without speaking to the like of 
her. I always grabbed her hand, however in 
a frank way. 

On Saturday Tibbie made her appearance. 
From the rapidity of her walk, and the way 
she was sucking in her mouth, I knew that 
she had strange things to unfold. She had 
pinned a gray shawl about her shoulders and 
wore a black mutch over her dangling gray 
curls. 

“It’s you, Tibbie,” I heard Jess say, as the 
door opened. 

Tibbie did not knock, not considering herself 
grand enough for ceremony, and indeed Jess 
would have resented her knocking. On the 
other hand, when Leeby visited Tibbie, she 
knocked as politely as if she Vv ere collecting for 
the precentor’s present. All this showed that 
we were superior socially to Tibbie. 

“Ay, hoo are ye, Jess?” Tibbie said. 

“Muckle aboot it,” answered Jess; “juist 
aff an’ on; ay, an’ hoo hae ye been yersel? ” 

“Ou,” said Tibbie. 


70 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


I wish I could write “ou” as Tibbie said it. 
With her it was usually a sentence in itself. 
Sometimes it was a mere bark, again it ex- 
pressed indignation, surprise, rapture ; it might 
be a check upon emotion or a way of leading 
up to it, and often it lasted for half a minute. 
In this instance it was, I should say, an intima- 
tion that if Jess was ready Tibbie would begin. 

“So Pete Lownie’s gone,” said Jess, whom 
I could not see from ben the house. I had a 
good glimpse of Tibbie, however, through, the 
open doorways. She had the armchair on the 
south side, as she would have said, of the fire- 
place. 

“He’s awa,” assented Tibbie primly. 

I heard the lid of the kettle dancing, and 
then came a prolonged “ou”. Tibbie bent for- 
ward to whisper, and if she had anything ter- 
rible to tell I was glad of that, for when she 
whispered I heard her best. For a time only a 
murmur of words reached me, distant music 
with an “ou” now and again that fired Tibbie 
as the beating of his drum may rouse the mar- 
tial spirit of a drummer. At last our visitor 


THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. 71 

broke into an agitated whisper, and it was only 
when she stopped whispering, as she did now 
and again, that I ceased to hear her. Jess 
evidently put a question at times, but so po- 
litely (for she had on her best wrapper) that I 
did not catch a word. 

“Though I should be struck deid this nicht,” 
Tibbie whispered, and the sibilants hissed be- 
tween her few remaining teeth, “I wasna sae 
muckle as speired to the layin’ oot. There 
was Mysy Cruickshanks there, an’ Kitty Wob- 
ster ’at was nae friends to the corpse to speak 
o’, but Mar get passed by me, me ’at is her ain 
flesh an’ blood, though it mayna be for the like 
o’ me to say it. It’s gospel truth, Jess, I tell 
ye, when I say ’at for all I ken officially, as ye 
micht say, Pete Lownie may be weel and 
hearty this day. If I was to meet Marget in 
the face I couldna say he was deid, though I 
ken ’at the wricht coffined him; na, an’ what’s 
mair, I wouldna gie Marget the satisfaction o’ 
hearin’ me say it. No, Jess, I tell ye, I dinna 
pertend to be on an equal ty wi’ Marget, but 
equalty or no equalty, a body has her feelings, 


72 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


an’ lat on ’at I ken Pete’s gone I will not. 
Eh? Ou, weel. . . . 

“ Na faags a ; na, na. I ken my place better 
than to gang near Marget. I dinna deny ’at 
she’s grand by me, and her keeps a bakehoose 
o’ her ain, an’ glad am I to see her doin’ sae 
weel, but let me tell ye this, Jess, ‘Pride goeth 
before a fall.’ Yes, it does, it’s Scripture; ay, 
it’s nae mak-up o’ mine, it’s Scripture. And 
this I will say, though kennin’ my place, ’at 
Davit Lunan is as dainty a man as is in 
Thrums, an’ there’s no one ’at’s better behaved 
at a bural, being particularly wise-like (pre- 
sentable) in’s blacks, an’ them spleet new. 
Na, na, Jess, Davit may hae his faults an’ tak 
a dram at times like anither, but he would 
shame naebody at a bural, an’ Marget deleeb- 
erately insulted him, no speirin’ him to Pete’s. 
What’s mair, when the minister cried in to see 
me yesterday, an’ me on the floor washin’, 
says he, ‘So Marget ’s lost her man’, an’ I said, 
‘Say ye so, na?’ for let on ’at I kent, and nei- 
ther me at the laying oot nor Davit Lunan at 
the funeral, I would not. 


THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIBSE. 73 

“‘Davit should hae gone to the funeral,’ 
says the minister, ‘for I doubt not he was only 
omitted in the invitations by a mistake. ’ 

“Ay, it was weel meant, but says I, Jess, 
says I, ‘As lang as am livin’ to tak chairge o’ 
’im, Davit Lunan gangs to nae burals ’at he’s 
no bidden to. An’ I tell ye,’ I says to the 
minister, ‘if there was one body ’at had a richt 
to be at the bural o’ Pete Lownie, it was Davit 
Lunan, him bein’ my man an’ Marget my ain 
sister. Yes,’ says I, though am no o’ the 
boastin’ kind, ‘Davit had maist richt to be 
there next to Pete ’imsel’. Ou, Jess. . . . 

“This is no a maiter I like to speak aboot; 
na, I dinna care to mention it, but the neigh- 
bors is nat’ rally taen up aboot it, and Chirsty 
Tosh was sayin’ what I would wager ’at Mar- 
get hadna sent the minister to hint ’at Davit’s 
bein’ over-lookit in the invitations was juist an 
accident? Losh, losh, Jess, to think ’at a wo- 
man could hae the michty assurance to mak 
a tool o’ the very minister! But, sal, as far 
as .that gangs, Marget would do it, an’ gae 
twice to the kirk next Sabbath, too; hut if she 


74 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


thinks she’s to get ower me like that, she taks 
me for a bigger fule than I tak her for. Na, 
na, Marget, ye dinna draw my leg (deceive 
me). Ou, no. . . . 

“Mind ye, Jess, I hae no desire to he friends 
wi’ Marget. Naething could be farrer frae my 
wish than to hae helpit in the layin’ oot o’ Pete 
Lownie, an’ I assure ye, Davit wasna keen to 
gang to the bural. ‘If they dinna want me to 
their burals, ’ Davit says, ‘they hae nae mair 
to do than to say sae. But I warn ye, Tibbie, ’ 
he says, ‘if there’s a bural, frae this hoose, he 
it your bural, or he it my bural, not one o’ the 
family o’ Lownies casts their shadows upon the 
corp.’ Thae was the very words Davit said 
to me as we watched the hearse frae the sky- 
licht. Ay, he bore up wonderfu’, but he felt 
it, Jess — he felt it, as I could tell by his tak- 
kin’ to drink again that very nicht. Jess, 
Jess. . . . 

“Marget’s getting waur an’ waur? Ay, ye 
may say so, though I’ll say naething agin her 
mysel’. Of coorse am no on equal ty wi’ her, 
especially since she had the bell put up in her 


THE STATEMENT OF TIBBIE BIRSE. 75 

hoose. Ou, I hinna seen it mysel’, na, I never 
gang near the hoose, an’, as mony a body can 
tell ye, when I do hae to gang that wy I mak 
my feet my friend. Ay, but as I was sayin’, 
Marget’s sae grand noo ’at she has a bell in 
the hoose. As I understan’, there’s a rope in 
the wast room, an’ when ye pu’ it a bell rings 
in the east room. Weel, when Mar get has 
company at their tea in the wast room, an’ 
they need mair watter or scones or ony thing, 
she rises an’ rings the bell. Syne Jean, the 
auldest lassie, gets up frae the table an’ lifts 
the jug or the plates an’ gaes awa ben to the 
east room for what’s wanted. Ay, it’s awy o’ 
doin’ ’at’s juist like the gentry, but I’ll tell ye, 
Jess, Pete juist fair hated the soond o’ that 
bell, an’ there’s them ’at says it was the death 
o’ ’im. To think o’ Mar get ha’en sic an estab- 
lishment! . . . 

“Na, I hinna seen the mournin’, I’ve heard 
o’t. Na, if Marget doesna tell me naething, 
am no the kind to speir naething, an’ though 
I’ll be at the kirk the morn, I winna turn my 
heid to look at the mournin’. But it’s fac as 


76 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


death I ken frae Janet McQuhatty ’at the bon- 
net’s a’ crape, an’ three yairds o’ crape on the 
dress, the which Mar get calls a costume. . . . 
Ay, I wouldna wonder but what it was hale 
watter the morn, for it looks michty like rain, 
an’ if it is it’ll serve Mar get richt, an’ mebbe 
bring doon her pride a wee. No ’at I want to 
see her humbled, for, in coorse, she’s grand by 
the like o’ me. Ou, but ...” 


CHAPTER VIII. 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 

Ok week-days the women who passed the 
window were meagrely dressed; mothers in 
draggled winsey gowns, carrying infants that 
were armfuls of grandeur. The Sabbath 
clothed every one in her best, and then the 
women went by with their hands spread out. 
When I was with Hendry cloaks with beads 
were the fashion, and Jess sighed as she looked 
at them. They were known in Thrums as the 
Eleven and a Bits (threepenny bits), that be- 
ing their price at Kyowowy’s on the square. 
Kyowowy means finicky, and applied to the 
draper by general consent. No doubt it was 
very characteristic to call the cloaks by their 
market value. In the glen my scholars still 
talk of their school-books as the tupenny, the 
fowerpenny, the saxpenny. They finish their 

education with the tenpenny. 

77 


78 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Jess’ opportunity for handling the garments 
that others of her sex could finger in shops 
was when she had guests to tea. Persons who 
merely dropped in and remained to tea got 
their meal, as a rule, in the kitchen. They 
had nothing on that Jess could not easily take 
in as she talked to them. But when they came 
by special invitation the meal was served in 
the room, the guests’ things being left on the 
kitchen bed. Jess not being able to go ben the 
house, had to he left with the things. When 
the time to go arrived, these were found on the 
bed, just as they had been placed there, but 
Jess could now tell Leeby whether they were 
imitation, why Bell Elshioner’s feather went 
far round the bonnet, and Chirsty Lownie’s 
reason for always holding her left arm fast 
against her side when she went abroad in the 
black jacket. Ever since My Hobart’s eleven 
and a bit was left on the kitchen bed Jess had 
hungered for a cloak with heads. My’s was 
the very marrows of the one T’nowhead’s wife 
got in Dundee for ten-and-sixpence ; indeed, 
we would have thought that ’Lisbeth’s also 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 79 

came from Kyowowy’s had not Sanders Elshi- 
oners’ sister seen her go into the Dundee 
shop with T’nowhead (who was loth), and hung 
about to discover what she was after. 

Hendry was not quick at reading faces like 
Tammas Haggart, but the wistful look on 
Jess’ face when there was talk of eleven and 
a hits had its meaning for him. 

“They’re grand to look at, no doubt,” I have 
heard him say to Jess, “hut they’re richt an- 
noyin’. That new wife o’ Peter Dickie’s had 
ane on in the kirk last Sabbath, an’ wi’ her 
sittin’ juist afore us I couldna listen to the 
sermon for tryin’ to count the heads.” 

Hendry made his way into these gossips un- 
invited, for his opinions on dress were consid- 
ered contemptible, though he was worth con- 
sulting on material. Jess and Leeby discussed 
many things in his presence, confident that 
his ears were not doing their work ; hut every 
now and then it was discovered that he had 
been hearkening greedily. If the subject was 
dress, he might then become a little irritat- 
ing. 


80 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“Oh, they’re grand,” Jess admitted; “they 
set a body aff oncommon.” 

“They would he no use to you,” said Hen- 
dry, “for ye canna wear them except ootside.” 

“A body doesna buy cloaks to be wearin’ at 
them steady,” retorted Jess. 

“No, no, but you could never wear yours 
though ye had ane.” 

“ I dinna want ane. They’re far ower grand 
for the like o’ me.” 

“They’re no nae sic thing. Am thinkin’ 
ye’re juist as fit to wear an eleven and a bit 
as My Hobart.” 

“Weel, mebbe I am, but it’s oot o’ the, 
question gettin’ ane, they’re sic a price.” 

“Ay, an’ though we had the siller, it would 
surely be an awfu’ like thing to buy a cloak ’at 
ye could never wear? ” 

“Ou, but I dinna want ane.” 

Jess spoke so mournfully that Hendry be- 
came enraged. 

“It’s most michty,” he said, “’at ye would 
gang an’ set yer heart on sic a completely 
useless thing.” 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 81 

“I hinna set my heart on’t.” 

“Dinna blether. Ye’ve been speakin’ aboot 
thae eleven and a bits to Leeby, aff an’ on, for 
twa month.” 

Then Hendry hobbled off to his loom, and 
Jess gave me a look which meant that men are 
trying at the best, once you are tied to them. 

The cloaks continued to turn up in conver- 
sation, and Hendry poured scorn upon Jess’ 
weakness, telling her she would be better em- 
ployed mending his trousers than brooding 
over an eleven and a bit that would have to 
spend its life in a drawer. An outsider would 
have thought that Hendry was positively cruel 
to Jess. He seemed to take a delight in find- 
ing that she had neglected to sew a button on 
his waistcoat. His real joy, however, was the 
knowledge that she sewed as no other woman 
in Thrums could sew. Jess had a genius for 
making new garments out of old ones, and 
Hendry never tired of gloating over her clever- 
ness so long as she was not present. He was 
always athirst for fresh proofs of it, and these 
were forthcoming every day. Sparing were 


82 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


his words of praise to herself, hut in the even- 
ing he generally had a smoke with me in the 
attic, and then the thought of Jess made him 
chuckle till his pipe went out. When he 
smoked he grunted as if in pain, though this 
really added to the enjoyment. 

“It doesna matter,” he would say to me, 
“ what Jess turns her hand to, she can mak ony 
mortal thing. She doesna need nae teachin’ ; 
na, juist gie her a guid look at ony thing, he it 
clothes, or furniture, or in the bakin’ line, it’s 
all the same to her. She’ll mak another ex- 
actly like it. Ye canna beat her. Her ban- 
nocks is so superior ’at a Tilliedrum woman 
took to her bed after tastin’ them, an’ when the 
lawyer has company his wife gets Jess to mak 
some bannocks for her an’ syne pretends they’re 
her ain bakin’.’ Ay, there’s a story aboot 
that. One day the auld doctor, him ’at’sdeid, 
was at his tea at the lawyer’s, an’ says the 
guidwife, ‘Try the cakes, Mr. Riach; they’re 
my own bakin’.’ Weel, he was a fearsomely 
outspoken man, the doctor, an’ nae suner had 
he the bannock atween his teeth, for he didna 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 


83 


stop to swallow ’t, than he says, ‘Mistress Ged- 
die,’ says he, ‘I wasna horn on a Sabbath. 
Na, na, you’re no the first grand leddy ’at has 
gien me bannocks as their ain bakin’ ’at was 
baked and fired by Jess Logan, her ’at’s Hen- 
dry McQumpha’s wife.’ Ay, they say the 
lawyer’s wife didna ken which wy to look, 
she was that mortified. It’s juist the same wi’ 
sewin’. There’s wys o’ ornamentin’ chris- 
tenin’ robes an’ the like ’at’s kent to naebody 
but hersel’ ; an’ as for stockin’ s, weel though 
I’ve seen her mak sae mony, she amazes me 
yet. I mind o’ a furry waistcoat I aince had. 
Weel, when it was fell dune, do you think she 
gae it awa to some gaen aboot body (vagrant) ? 
Na, she made it into a richt neat coat to Jamie, 
wha was a bit laddie at the time. When he 
grew out o’ it, she made a slipbody o’t for her- 
sel’. Ay, I dinna ken a’ the different things it 
became, but the last time I saw it was ben in 
the room, whaur she’d covered a footstool 
wi’ ’t. Yes, Jess is the cleverest crittur I ever 
saw. Leeby’s handy, but she’s no a patch on 
her mother.” 


84 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


I sometimes repeated these panegyrics to 
Jess. She merely smiled, and said that men 
haver most terrible when they are not at their 
work. 

Hendry tried Jess sorely over the cloaks, 
and a time came when, only by exasperating 
her, could he get her to reply to his sallies. 

“Wha wants an eleven an’ a bit?” she re- 
torted now and again. 

“It’s you ’at wants it,” said Hendry 
promptly. 

“Did I ever say I wanted ane? What use 
could I hae for’t?” 

“That’s the queistion,” said Hendry. “Ye 
canna gang the length o’ the door, so ye 
would never he able to wear’t.” 

“Ay, weel,” replied Jess, “I’ll never hae 
the chance o’ no bein’ able to wear’t, for, 
hooever muckle I wanted it, I couldna get 
it.” 

Jess’ infatuation had in time the effect of 
making Hendry uncomfortable. In the attic 
he delivered himself of such sentiments as 
these : 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS . 


85 


“ There’s nae understandin’ a woman. 
There’s Jess ’at hasna her equal for clever- 
ness in Thrums, man or woman, an’ yet she’s 
fair skeered about thae cloaks. Aince a 
woman sets her mind on something to wear, 
she’s mair onreasonable than the stupidest 
man. Ay, it micht mak them humble to see 
hoo foolish they are syne. No, but it doesna 
do’t. 

“If it was a thing to be useful noo, I 
wouldna think the same o’t, but she could 
never wear’t. She kens she could never 
wear’t, an ’yet she’s juist as keen to hae’t. 

“I dinna like to see her so wantin’ a thing, 
an’ no able to get it. But it’s an awfu’ sum, 
eleven an’ a bit.” 

He tried to argue with her further. 

“If ye had eleven an’ a bit to fling awa,”he 
said, “ye dinna mean to tell me ’at ye would 
buy a cloak instead o’ cloth for a gown, or a 
flannel for petticoats, or some useful thing?” 

“As sure as death,” said Jess, with un- 
wonted vehemence, “if a cloak I could get, a 
cloak I would buy.” 


86 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Hendry came up to tell me what Jess had 
said. 

“It’s a michty inf atooation, ” he said, “but 
it shows hoo her heart’s set on thae cloaks.” 

“ Aince ye had it,” he argued with her, “ye 
would juist hae to lock it awa in the drawers. 
Ye would never even he seein’ ’t.” 

“Ay, would I,” said Jess. “I would often 
tak it oo t an’ look at it. Ay, an’ I would aye 
ken it was there.” 

“ But naebody would ken ye had it but yer- 
sel’,” said Hendry, who had a vague notion 
that this was a telling objection. 

“Would they no?” answered Jess. “It 
would be a’ through the toon afore nicht.” 

“Weel, all I can say,” said Hendry, “is ’at 
ye’re terrible foolish to tak the want o’ sic a 
useless thing to heart.” 

“Am no takkin’ ’t to heart,” retorted Jess, 
as usual. 

Jess needed many things in her days that 
poverty kept from her to the end, and the 
cloak was merely a luxury. She would soon 
have let it slip by as something unattainable 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 87 

had not Hendry encouraged it to rankle in her 
mind. I cannot say when he first determined 
that Jess should have a cloak, come the money 
as it liked, for he was too ashamed of his 
weakness to admit his project to me. I re- 
member, however, his saying to Jess one day: 

“ I’ll warrant ye could mak a cloak yersel’ 
the marrows o’ thae eleven and a bits, at half 
the price?” 

“It would cost,” said Jess, “sax an’ sax- 
pence, exactly. The cloth would be five shil- 
lins, an’ the beads a shillin’. I have some 
braid ’at would do fine for the front, but the 
buttons would be saxpence.” 

“Ye’re sure o’ that?” 

“I ken fine, for I got Leeby to price the 
things in the shop.” 

“Ay, but it maun be ill to shape the cloaks 
richt. There was a queer cut aboot that ane 
Peter Dickie’s new wife had on.” 

“Queer cut or no queer cut,” said Jess, “I 
took the shape o’ My Hobart’s ane the day 
she was here at her tea, an’ I could mak the 
identical o’ t for sax and sax.” 


88 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“I dinna believe’t,” said Hendry, but when 
he and I were alone he told me: “ There’s no a 
doubt she could mak it. Ye heard her say she 
had ta’en the shape? Ay, that shows she’s 
rale set on a cloak.” 

Had Jess known that Hendry had been sav- 
ing up for months to buy her material for a 
cloak, she would not have let him do it. She 
could not know, however, for all the time he 
was scraping together his pence he kept up a 
ring-ding-dang about her folly. Hendry gave 
Jess all the wages he weaved except three- 
pence weekly, most of which went in tobacco 
and snuff. The dulseman had perhaps a half 
penny from him in the fortnight. I noticed 
that for a long time Hendry neither smoked 
nor snuffed, and I knew that for years he had 
carried a shilling in his snuff-mull. The re- 
mainder of the money he must have made by 
extra work at his loom by working harder, for 
he could scarcely have worked longer. 

It was one day shortly before Jamie’s return 
to Thrums that Jess saw Hendry pass the 
house and go down the brae when he ought to 


A CLOAK WITH BEADS. 


89 


have come in to his brose. She sat at the 
window watching for him, and by-and-bye he 
reappeared, carrying a parcel. 

“ Whaur on earth hae ye been? ” she asked, 
“an’ what’s that you’re carryin’? ” 

“Did ye think it was an eleven an’ a bit? ” 
said Hendry. 

“No, I didna,” answered Jess indignantly. 

Then Hendry slowly undid the knots of the 
string with which the parcel was tied. He 
took off the brown paper. 

“There’s yer cloth,” he said, “an’ here’s one 
an’ saxpence for the beads an’ the buttons.” 

While Jess still stared he followed me ben 
the house. 

“It’s a terrible haver,” he said, apologeti- 
cally, “but she had set her heart on’t.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 

One evening there was such a gathering at 
the pig-sty that Hendry and I could not get a 
hoard to lay our backs against. Circumstances 
had pushed Pete Elshioner into the place of 
honor that belonged by right of mental powers 
to Tammas Haggart, and Tammas was sitting 
rather sullenly on the bucket, boring a hole in 
the pig with his sarcastic eye. Pete was pass- 
ing round a card, and in time it reached me. 
“ With Mr. and Mrs. David Alexander’s com- 
pliments,” was printed on it, and Pete leered 
triumphantly at us as it went the round. 

“ Weel, what think ye?” he asked, with a 
pretence at modesty. 

“Ou,” said T’nowhead, looking at the others 
like one who asked a question, “ou, I think; 
ay, ay.” 


90 


THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 


91 


The others seemed to agree with him — all but 
Tammas, who did not care to tie himself down 
to an opinion. 

“Ou ay,” T’nowhead continued, more con- 
fidently, “it is so, deceededly.” 

“Ye’ll no ken,” said Pete, chuckling, 
“what it means?” 

“Na,” the farmer admitted, “na, I canna 
say I exac’ly ken that.” 

“I ken, though,” said Tammas in his keen 
way. 

“Weel, then, what is’t?” demanded Pete, 
who had never properly come under Tammas’ 
spell. 

“I ken,” said Tammas. 

“Oot wi’t, then.” 

“ I dinna say it’s lyin’ on my tongue,” Tam- 
mas replied in a tone of reproof, “but if ye’ll 
juist speak awa aboot some other thing for a 
meenute or twa, I’ll tell ye syne.” 

Hendry said that this was only reasonable, 
but we could think of no subject at the mo- 
ment, so we only stared at Tammas and 
waited. 


92 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“I fathomed it,” he said at last, “as sune as 
my een lichted on’t. It’s one o’ the bit cards 
’at grand fowk slip ’aneath doors when they 
mak calls, an’ their friends is no in. Ay, 
that’s what it is.” 

“I dinna say ye’re wrang,” Pete answered 
a little annoyed. “Ay, weel, lads, of course 
David Alexander’s oor Dite as we called ’im, 
Dite Elshioner, an’ that’s his wy o’ signify in’ 
to us ’at he’s married.” 

“ I assure ye,” said Hendry, “ Dite’s doin’ the 
thing in style.” 

“Ay, we said that when the card arrived,” 
Pete admitted. 

“Ikent,” said Tammas, “’at that was the 
wy grand fowk did when they got married. 
I’ve kent it a lang time. It’s no nae sur- 
prise to me.” 

“He’s been lang in marryin’,” Hookey 
Crewe said. 

“He was thirty at Martinmas,” said Pete. 

“Thirty, was he?” said Hookey. “Man, I’d 
buried twa wives by the time I was that age, 
an’ was castin’ aboot for a third.” 


THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 


93 


“I mind o’ them,” Hendry interposed. 

“Ay,” Hookey said, “the first twa was 
angels.” There he paused. “An’ so’s the 
third,” he added, “in many respects.” 

“But wha’s the woman Dite’s ta’en?” 
T’nowhead or some one of the more silent 
members of the company asked of Pete. 

“Ou, we dinna ken wha she is,” answered 
Pete; “hut she’ll he some Glasca lassie, for 
he’s there noo. Look, lads, look at this. He 
sent this at the same time; it’s her picture.” 
Pete produced the silhouette of a young lady, 
and handed it round. 

“What do ye think?” he asked. 

“ I assure ye !” said Hookey. 

“Sal,” said Hendry, even more charmed, 
“Dite’s done weel.” 

“Lat’s see her in a 'better licht,” said 
Tammas. 

He stood up and examined the photograph 
narrowly, while Pete fidgeted with his legs. 

“Fairish,” said Tammas at last. “Ou, ay; 
no what I would selec’ mysel’, but a dainty bit 
stocky! Ou, a tasty crittury! ay, an’ she’s 


94 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


weel in order. Lads, she’s a fine stoot 
kimmer.” 

“I conseeder her a beauty,” said Pete 
aggressively. 

“ She’s a’ that,” said Hendry. 

“A’ I can say,” said Hookey, “is ’at she 
taks me most michty.” 

“She’s no a beauty,” Tammas maintained; 
“na, she doesna juist come up to that; but I 
dinna deny hut what she’s weel faured.” 

“What faut do ye find wi’ her, Tammas?” 
asked Hendry. 

“ Conseedered critically, ” said Tammas, hold- 
ing the photograph at arm’s length, “I would 
say ’at she — let’s see, noo; ay, I would say ’at 
she’s defeecient in genteelity.” 

“Havers,” said Pete. 

“Na,” said Tammas, “no when conseedered 
critically. Ye see she’s drawn lauchin’; an’ 
the genteel thing’s no to lauch, hut juist to 
put on a bit smirk. Ay, that’s the genteel 
thing.” 

“A smile, they ca’ it,” interposed T’now- 
head. 


THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 


95 


“I said a smile,” continued Tammas. 
“Then there’s her waist. I say naething agin 
her waist, speakin’ in the ord’nar meanin’; 
but, conseedered critically, there’s a want o’ 
suppleness, as ye micht say, aboot it. Ay, it 

doesna compare wi’ the waist o’ ” [Here 

Tammas mentioned a young lady who had re- 
cently married into a local county family.] 

“That was a pretty tiddy,” said Hookey. 

“Ou, losh, ay! it made me a kind o’ queery 
to look at her.” 

“Ye’re ower kyowowy (particular), Tam- 
mas,” said Pete. 

“It may be, Pete,” Tammas admitted; “but 
I maun say I’m fond o’ a bonny-looken 
wuman, an’ no aisy to please ; na, I’m nat’rally 
ane o’ the critical kind.” 

“It’s extror’nar,” said T’nowhead, “what a 
poo’er beauty has. I mind when I was a cal- 
lant reaain’ aboot Mary Queen o’ Scots till I 
was fair mad, lads ; yes, I was fair mad at her 
bein’ deid. Ou, I could hardly sleep at nichts 
for thinking o’ her.” 

“Mary was spunky as weel as a beauty,” 


96 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


said Hookey, “ an’ that’s the kind I like. Lads, 
what a persuasive tid she was !” 

“She got roond the men,” said Hendry; 
“ ay, she turned them roond her finger. That’s 
the warst o’ thae beauties.” 

“I dinna gainsay,” said T’nowhead, “hut 
what there was a little o’ the deevil in Mary, 
the crittur. ” 

Here T’nowhead chuckled, and ther\ looked 
scared. 

“What Mary needed,” said Tammas, “was 
a strong man to manage her.” 

“Ay, man, but it’s ill to manage thae 
beauties. They gie ye a glint o’ their een, an’ 
syne whaur are ye?” 

“Ah, they can be managed,” said Tammas 
complacently. “There’s naehody nat’raliy 
safter wi’ a pretty stocky o’ a bit wumany 
than mysel’; but for a’ that, if I had been 
Mary’s man, I would hae stood nane o’ her 
tantrums. ‘Na, Mary, my lass’, I would hae 
said, •‘this winna do; na, na, ye’re a bonny 
body, hut ye maun mind ’at man’s the superior ; 
ay, man’s the lord o’ creation, an’ so ye maun 


THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 


97 


juist sing sma’. That’s hoo I would hae 
managed Mary, the speerity crittur ’at she 
was.” 

“ Ye would hae haen yer wark cut oot for 
ye, Tammas.” 

“Ilka mornin,” pursued Tammas, “I would 
hae said to her: ‘Mary,’ I would hae said, 
‘wha’s to wear thae breeks the day, you or me? 
Ay, syne I \vould hae ordered her to kindle 
the fire, or if I had been the king of coorse I 
would hae telt her instead to ring the bell an’ 
hae the cloth laid for the breakfast. Ay, 
that’s the wy to mak the like o’ Mary respec’ 
ye.” 

Pete and I left them talking. He had writ- 
ten a letter to David Alexander, and wanted 

me to “back” it. 

7 


CHAPTER X. 


A MAGNUM OPUS. 

Two Bibles, a volume of sermons by the 
learned Dr. Isaac Barrow, a few numbers of 
the Cheap Magazine , that had strayed from 
Dunfermline, and a “Pilgrim’s Progress,” 
were the works that lay conspicuous ben in the 
room. Hendry had also a copy of Burns, 
whom he always quoted in the complete poem, 
and a collection of legends in song and prose, 
that Leeby kept out of sight in a drawer. 

The weight of my box of books was a sub- 
ject Hendry was very willing to shake his head 
over, but he never showed any desire to take 
off the lid. Jess, however, was more curious ; 
indeed, she would have been an omnivorous 
devourer of books had it not been for her con- 
viction that reading was idling. Until I found 

her out, she never allowed to me that Leeby 
98 


A MAGNUM OPUS. 


brought her my books one at a time. Some 
of them were novels, and Jess took about ten 
minutes to each. She confessed that what she 
read was only the last chapter, owing to a con- 
suming curiosity to know whether “she got 
him.” 

She read all the London parts, however, of 
“The Heart of Midlothian, ” because London 
was where Jamie lived, and she and I had a 
discussion about it which ended in her remem- 
bering that Thrums once had an author of its 
own. 

“Bring oot the book,” she said to Leeby ; “it 
was put awa i’ the bottom drawer ben i’ the 
room sax year syne, an’ I sepad it’s there 
yet.” 

Leeby came but with a faded little book, the 
title already rubbed from its shabby brown 
covers. I opened it, and then all at once I saw 
before me again the man who wrote and 
printed it and died. He came hobbling up the 
brae, so bent that his body was almost at right 
angles to his legs, and his broken silk hat was 
carefully brushed as in the days when Janet, 


100 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


his sister, lived. There he stood at the top of 
the brae, panting. 

I was hut a hoy when Jimsy Duthie turned 
the corner of the brae for the last time, with 
a score of mourners behind him. While I 
knew him there was no Janet to run to the 
door to see if he was coming. So occupied was 
Jimsy with the great affair of his life, which 
was brewing for thirty years, that his neigh- 
bors saw how he missed his sister better than 
he realized it himself. Only his hat was no 
longer carefully brushed, and his coat hung 
awry, and there was sometimes little reason 
why he should go home to dinner. It is for 
the sake of Janet who adored him that we 
should remember Jimsy in the days before she 
died. 

Jimsy was a poet, and for the space of thirty 
years he lived in a great epic on the Millen- 
nium. This is the book presented to me by 
Jess, that lies so quietly on my topmost shelf 
now. Open it, however, and you will find that 
the work is entitled “ The Millennium : an Epic 
Poem, in Twelve Books; by James Duthie.” 


A MAGNUM OPUS. 


101 


In the little hole in his wall where Jimsy kept 
his hooks there was, I have no doubt — for his 
effects were rouped before I knew him except 
by name — a well-read copy of “ Paradise Lost.” 
Some people would smile, perhaps, if they read 
the two epics side by side, and others might 
sigh, for there is a great deal in “ The Millen- 
nium” that Milton could take credit for. Jimsy 
had educated himself, after the idea of writing 
something that the world would not willingly 
let die came to him, and he began his book 
before his education was complete. So far as 
I know, he never wrote a line that had not to 
do with “ The Millennium.” He was ever a 
man sparing of his plural tenses, and “ The 
Millennium” says “has” for “have”; a vain 
word, indeed, which Thrums would only have 
permitted as a poetical license. The one orig- 
inal character in the poem is the devil, of 
whom Jimsy gives a picture that is startling 
and graphic, and received the approval of the 
Auld Licht minister. 

By trade Jimsy was a printer, a master- 
printer with no one under him, and he printed 


102 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


and bound his book, ten copies in all, as well 
as wrote it. To print the poem took him, I 
dare say, nearly as long as to write it, and he 
set up the pages as they were written, one by 
one. The book is only printed on one side of 
the leaf, and each page was produced sepa- 
rately like a little hand-bill. Those who may 
pick up the book — but who will care to do so? 
— will think that the author or his printer 
could not spell — but they would not do Jimsy 
that injustice if they knew the circumstances 
in which it was produced. He had but a small 
stock of type, and on many occasions he ran 
out of a letter. The letter e tried him sorely. 
Those who knew him best say that he tried to 
think of words without an e in them, but when 
he was baffled he had to use a little a or an 
o instead. He could print correctly, but in the 
book there are a good many capital letters in 
the middle of words, and sometimes there is a 
note of interrogation after “ alas” or “ woes me,” 
because all the notes of exclamation had been 
used up. 


A MAGNUM OPUS . 


103 


Jlmsy never cared to speak about his great 
poem even to his closest friends, hut Janet told 
how he read it out to her, and that his whole 
body trembled with excitement while he raised 
his eyes to heaven as if asking for inspiration 
that would enable his voice to do justice to his 
writing. So grand it was, said Janet, that 
her stocking would slip from her fingers as he 
read — and Janet’s stockings, that she was al- 
ways knitting when not otherwise engaged, did 
not slip from her hands readily. After her 
death he was heard by his neighbors reciting 
the poem to himself, generally with his door 
locked. He is said to have declaimed part of 
it one still evening from the top of the com- 
monty like one addressing a multitude, and 
the idlers who had crept up to jeer at him fell 
back when they saw his face. He walked 
through them, they told, with his old body 
straight once more, and a queer light playing 
on his face. His lips are moving as I see him 
turning the corner of the brae. So he passed 
from youth to old age, and all his life seemed 


104 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


a dream, except that part of it in which he 
was writing, or printing, or stitching, or bind- 
ing u The Millennium.” At last the work was 
completed. 

“It is finished,” he printed at the end of the 
last book. “The task of thirty years is over.” 

It is indeed over. No one ever read “ The 
Millennium.” I am not going to sentimental- 
ize over my copy, for how much of it have I 
read? But neither shall I say that it was 
written to no end. 

You may care to know the last of Jimsy, 
though in one sense he was blotted out when 
the last copy was bound. He had saved one 
hundred pounds by that time, and being now 
neither able to work nor to live alone, his 
friends cast about for a home for his remaining 
years. He was very spent and feeble, yet he 
had the fear that he might be still alive when 
all his money was gone. After that was the 
workhouse. He covered sheets of paper with 
calculations about how long the hundred 
pounds would last if he gave away for board 


A MAGNUM OPUS. 


105 


and lodgings ten shillings, nine shillings, seven 
and sixpence a week. At last, with sore mis- 
givings, he went to live with a family who 
took him for eight shillings. Less than a 
month afterward he died. 


CHAPTER XL 


THE GHOST CRADLE. 

Our dinner hour was 12 o’clock, and Hen- 
dry, for a not incomprehensible reason, called 
this meal his brose. Frequently, however, 
while I was there to share the expense, broth 
was put on the table, with beef to follow in 
clean plates, much to Hendry’s distress, for the 
comfortable and usual practice was to eat the 
beef from the broth -plates. Jess, however, 
having three whole white plates and two 
cracked ones, insisted on the meals being taken 
genteelly, and her husband, with a look at me, 
gave way. 

“Half a pound o’ boiling beef, an’ a penny 
bone,” was Leeby’s almost invariable order 
when she dealt with the flesher, and Jess had 
always neighbors poorer than herself, who got 

a plateful of the broth. She never had any- 
106 


THE GHOST CRADLE. 


107 


thing without remembering some old body who 
would be the better of a little of it. 

Among those who must have missed Jess 
sadly after she was gone was Johnny Proctor, 
a half-witted man who, because he could not 
work, remained straight at a time of life when 
most weavers, male and female, had lost some 
inches of their stature. For as far back as my 
memory goes, Johnny had got his brose three 
times a week from Jess, his custom being to 
walk in without ceremony, and, drawing a 
stool to the table, tell Leeby that he was now 
ready. One day, however, when I was in the 
garden putting some rings on a fishing- wand, 
Johnny pushed by me, with no sign of recog- 
nition on his face. I addressed him, and, after 
pausing undecidedly, he ignored me. When 
he came to the door, instead of flinging it open 
and walking in, he knocked primly, which sur- 
prised me so much that I followed him. 

“Is this whaur Mistress McQumpha lives?” 
he asked, when Leeby, with a face ready to 
receive the minister himself, came at length 
to the door. 


108 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


I knew that the gentility of the knock had 
taken both her and her mother aback. 

“Hoots, Johnny,” said Leeby, “what haw 
er’s this? Come awa in.” 

Johnny seemed annoyed. 

“Is this whaur Mistress McQumpha lives?” 
he repeated. 

“Say ’at it is,” cried Jess, who was quicker 
in the uptake than her daughter. 

“ Of course this is whaur Mistress McQum- 
pha lives,” Leeby then said, “as weel ye ken, 
for ye had yer dinner here no twa hours syne.” 

“Then, ’’said Johnny, “Mistress Tully’s com- 
pliments to her, and would she kindly lend the 
christenin’ -robe, an’ also the tea-tray, if the 
same be na needed? ” 

Having delivered his message as instructed, 
Johnny consented to sit down until the famous 
christening-robe and the tray were ready, but 
he would not talk, for that was not in the 
bond. Jess’ sweet face beamed over the com- 
pliment Mrs. Tully, known on ordinary occa- 
sions as Jean McTaggart, had paid her, and, 
after Johnny had departed laden, she told me 


THE GHOST CRADLE. 


109 


how the tray, which had a great hump in the 
middle, came into her possession. 

“ Ye’ve often heard me speak aboot the time 
when I was a lassie workin’ at the farm o’ the 
bog? Ay, that was afore me an’ Hendry 
kent ane anither, an’ I was as fleet on my feet 
in thae days as Leeby is noo. It was Sam’l 
Fletcher ’at was the farmer, hut he maun hae 
been gone afore you was mair than born. 
Mebbe, though, ye ken ’at he was a terrible 
invalid, an’ for the hinmost years o’ his life he 
sat in a muckle chair nicht an’ day. Ay, when 
I took his dinner to ’im, on ’at very tray 
’at Johnny cam for, I little thocht ’at by-an’- 
bye I would be sae keepit in a chair mysel’. 

“But the thinkin’ o’ Sam’l Fletcher’s case is 
ane o’ the things ’at maks me awfu’ thankfu’ 
for the lenient wy the Lord has aye dealt wi’ 
me; for Sam’l couldna move oot o’ the chair, 
aye sleepin’ in’t at nicht, an’ I can come an’ 
gang between mine an’ my bed. Mebbe, ye 
think I’m no much better off than Sam’l, but 
that’s a terrible mistak. What a glory it 
would hae been to him if he could hae gone 


110 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


frae one end o’ the kitchen to the ither! Ay, 
I’m sure o’ that. 

“Sam’l was rale weel liked, for he was saft- 
spoken to everybody, an’ fond o’ ha’en a gos- 
sip wi’ ony ane ’at was aboot the farm. We 
didna care sae muckle for the wife, Eppie Low- 
nie, for she managed the farm, an’ she was 
fell hard an’ terrible reserved we thocht, no 
even likin’ ony body to get friendly wi’ the 
mester, as we called Sam’l. Ay, we made a 
richt mistak.” 

As I had heard frequently of this queer, 
mournful mistake made by those who consid- 
ered Sam’l unfortunate in his wife, I turned 
Jess on the main line of her story. 

“ It was the ghost cradle, as they named it, 
’at I meant to tell ye aboot. The bog was a 
bigger farm in thae days than noo, but I daur- 
say it has the new steadin’ yet. Ay, it winna 
be new noo, but at the time there was sic a 
commotion aboot the ghost cradle, they were 
juist puttin’ the new steadin’ up. There was 
sax or mair masons at it, wi’ the lads on the 
farm helpin’, an’ as they were all sleepin’ at 


THE GHOST CRADLE. 


Ill 


the farm, there was great stir aboot the place. 
I couldna tellyehoo the story aboot the farm’s 
bein’ haunted rose, to begin wi’, but I mind 
fine hoo fleid I was; ay, an’ no only me, but 
every man-body an’ woman-body on the farm. 
It was aye late ’at the soond began, an’ we 
never saw naething — we juist heard it. The 
masons said they wouldna hae been sae fleid if 
they could hae seen’t, but it never was seen. 
It had the soond o’ a cradle rockin’, an’ when 
we lay in our beds hearkenin’, it grew louder 
an’ louder till it wasna to be borne, an’ the 
women-folk fair skirled wi’ fear. The mester 
was intimate wi’ a’ the stories aboot ghosts 
an’ water-kelpies an’ sic like, an’ we couldna 
help listenin’ to them. But he aye said ’at 
ghosts ’at was juist heard an’ no seen was the 
maist fearsome an’ wicked. For all there was 
sic fear ower the hale farm-toon ’at naebody 
would gang ower the door alane after the 
gloamin’ cam, the mester said he wasna fleid 
to sleep i’ the kitchen by ’imsel’. We thocht 
it richt brave o’ ’im, for ye see he was as help- 
less as a bairn. 


112 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“Richt queer stories rose aboot the cradle, 
an’ travelled to the ither farms. The wife 
didna like them ava, for it was said ’at there 
maun hae been some awful murder o’ an in- 
fant on the farm, or we wouldna be haunted 
by a cradle. Syne folk began to mind ’at 
there had been nae bairns born on the farm 
as far back as onybody kent, an’ it was said 
’at some lang syne crime had made the bog 
cursed. 

“Dinna think ’at we juist lay in our beds or 
sat round the fire shakin’ wi’ fear. Every- 
thing ’at could bo dune was dune. In the day- 
time, when naething was heard, the masons 
explored a’ place i’ the farm, in the hope o’ 
findin’ oot ’at the sound was caused by sic a 
thing as the wind playin’ on the wood in the 
garret. Even at nichts, when they couldna 
sleep wi’ the soond, I’ve kent them rise in a 
body an’ gang all ower the house wi’ lichts. 
I’ve seen them climbin’ on the new steadin’, 
crawlin ’ alang the rafters haudin’ their cruizey 
lamps afore them, an’ us women-bodies shiver- 
in’ wi’ fear at the door. It was on ane o’ 


THE GHOST CRADLE. 


113 


thae nichts ’at a mason fell off the rafters 
an’ broke his leg. Weel, sic a state was the 
men in to find oot what it was ’at was terri- 
fyin’ them sae muckle, ’at the rest o’ them 
climbed up at aince to the place he’d fallen 
frae, thinkin’ there was something there ’at 
had fleid ’im. But though they crawled hack 
an’ forrit there was naething ava. 

“The rockin’ was louder, we thocht, after 
that nicht, an’ syne the men said it would go 
on till somebody was killed. That idea took a 
richt haud o’ them, an’ twa ran awa back to 
Tilliedrum, whaur they had come frae. They 
gaed thegither i’ the middle o’ the nicht, an’ 
it was thocht next mornin’ ’at the ghost had 
spirited them awa. 

“Ye couldna conceive hoo low-spirited we 
all were after the masons had gien up hope o’ 
findin’ a nat’ral cause for the soond. At ord- 
’nar times there’s no ony mair lichtsome place 
than a farm after the men hae come in to their 
supper, but at the bog we sat dour an’ sullen; 

an’ there wasna a mason or a farm-servant 

8 


114 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


’at would gang by ’imsel’ as far as tlie end o’ 
the hoose whaur the peats was keepit. The 
mistress maun hae saved some siller that 
spring through the Egyptians (gypsies) keepin’ 
awa, for the farm had got sic an ill name ’at 
nae tinkler would come near’t at nicht. The 
tailorman an’ his laddie, ’at should hae hidden 
wi’ us to sew things for the men, walkit off 
fair skeered one mornin’, an’ settled doon at 
the farm o’ Cragiehuckle fower mile awa, 
whaur our lads had to gae to them. Ay, I 
mind the tailor’s sendin’ the laddie for the 
money owin’ him; he hadna the speerit to ven- 
ture again within soond o’ the cradle ’imsel’. 
The men on the farm, though, could na blame 
’im for that. They were juist as ffichtered 
themsels, an’ mony a time I saw them hittin’ 
the dogs for whinin’ at the soond. The wy 
the dogs took on was fearsome in itsel’, for they 
seemed to ken, aye when nicht cam on, ’at the 
rockin’ would sune begin, an’ if they werena 
chained they cam runnin’ to the hoose. I hae 
heard the hale glen fu, as ye micht say, wi’ 
the whinin’ o’ dogs, for the dogs on the other 


THE GHOST CRADLE . 


115 


farms took up the cry, an 5 in a glen ye can 
hear soonds terrible far awa’ at nicht. 

“As lang as we sat i’ the kitchen, listenin’ 
to what the mester had to say aboot the ghosts 
in his young days, the cradle would be still, 
but we were nae suner awa speeritless to our 
beds than it began, an’ sometimes it lasted 
till mornin’. We lookit upon the mester al- 
most wi’ awe, sittin’ there sae helpless in his 
chair, an’ no fleid to he left alane. He had 
lang white hair, an’ a saft bonny face ’at 
would hae made ’im respeckit by onybody, an’ 
aye when we speired if he wasna fleid to be 
left alane, he said, ‘Them ’at has a clear con- 
science has naething to fear frae ghosts. ’ 

“ There was some ’at said the curse would 
never leave the farm till the house was razed 
to the ground, an’ it’s the truth I’m tellin’ ye 
when I say there was talk among the men aboot 
settin’t on fire. The mester was richt stern 
when he heard o’ that, quotin’ frae Scripture 
in a solemn wy ’at abashed the masons, hut he 
said ’at in his opeenion there was a bairn bur- 
ied on the farm, an’ till it was found the cradle 


116 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


would go on rockin’. After that the masons 
dug in a lot o’ places lookin’ for the body, an’ 
they found some queer things, too, but never 
nae sign o’ a murdered litlin’. Ay, I dinna ken 
what would hae happened if the commotion 
had gaen on muckle langer. One thing I’m 
sure o’ is ’at the mistress would hae gaen daft, 
she took it a’ sae terrible to heart. 

“I lauch at it noo, hut I tell ye I used to 
tak my heart to my bed in my mooth. If ye 
hinna heard the story, I dinna think ye’ll he 
able to guess what the ghost cradle was.” 

I said I had been trying to think what the 
tray had to do with it. 

“It had everything to do wi’t,” said Jess; 
“an’ if the masons had kent hoo that cradle 
was rockit, I think they would hae killed the 
mester. It was Eppie ’at found oot, an’ she 
telt naebody but me, though mony a ane kens 
noo. I see ye canna mak it cot yet, so I’ll tell 
ye what the cradle was. The tray was keepit 
against the kitchen wall near the mester, an’ 
he played on’t wi’ his foot. He made it gang 
bump bump, an the soond was juist like a 


THE GHOST CRADLE. 


117 


cradle rockin’. Ye could hardly believe sic a 
thing would hae made that din, hut it did, an J 
ye see we lay in our beds hearkenin’ for’t. 
Ay, when Eppie telt me, I could scarce be- 
lieve ’at that guid devout lookin’ man could 
hae been sae wicked. Ye see, when he found 
hoo terrified we a’ were, he keepit it up. The 
wy Eppie found out i’ the tail o’ the day was 
by wonderin’ at ’im sleepin’ sae muckle in the 
daytime. He did that so as to be fresh for 
his sport at nicht. What a fine releegious 
man we thoucht ’im, too ! 

“Eppie couldna bear the very sicht o’ the 
tray after that, an’ she telt me to break it up; 
but I keepit it, ye see. The lump i’ the mid- 
dle’s the mark, as ye may say, o’ the auld 
man’s foot.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. 

Were Jess still alive to tell the life-story of 
SamT Fletcher and his wife, you could not 
hear it and sit still. The ghost cradle is but 
a page from the black history of a woman who 
married, to be blotted out from that hour. 
One case of the kind I myself have known, of 
a woman so good mated to a man so selfish 
that I cannot think of her even now with a 
steady mouth. Hers was the tragedy of liv- 
ing on, more mournful than the tragedy that 
kills. In Thrums the weavers spoke of “ lous- 
ing” from their looms, removing the chains, 
and there is something woeful in that. But 
pity poor Nanny Coutts, who took her chains 
to bed with her. 

Nanny was buried a month or more before I 

came to the house on the brae, and even in 

113 


THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. 


119 


Thrums the dead are seldom remembered for 
so long a time as that. But it was only after 
Sanders was left alone that we learned what a 
woman she had been, and how basely we 
had wronged her. She was an angel, Sanders 
went about whining when he had no longer a 
woman to ill-treat. He had this sentimental 
way with him, hut it lost its effect after we 
knew the man. 

“ A deevil couldna hae deserved waur treat- 
ment,” Tammas Haggart said to him; “gang 
oot o’ my sicht, man !” 

“I’ll blame mysel’ till I die,” Jess said, with 
tears in her eyes, “for no understand in’ puir 
Nanny better.” 

So Nanny got sympathy at last, but not un- 
til her forgiving soul had left her tortured 
body. There was many a kindly heart in 
Thrums that would have gone out to her in her 
lifetime, but we could not have loved her with- 
out upbraiding him, and she would not buy 
sympathy at the price. What a little story it 
is, and how few words are required to tell it ! 
He was a bad husband to her, and she kept it 


120 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 

secret. That is Nanny’s life summed up. It is 
all that was left behind when her coffin went 
down the brae. Did she love him to the end, 
or was she only doing what she thought her 
duty? It is not for me even to guess. A good 
woman who suffers is altogether beyond man’s 
reckoning. To such heights of self-sacrifice 
we cannot rise. It crushes us; it ought to 
crush us on to our knees. For us who saw 
Nanny, infirm, shrunken, and so weary, yet a 
type of the noblest womanhood, suffering for 
years, and misunderstood her to the end, what 
expiation can there be? I do not want to storm 
at the man who made her life so burdensome. 
Too many years have passed for that, nor 
would Nanny take it kindly if I called her man 
names. 

Sanders worked little after his marriage. 
He had a sore back, he said, which became a 
torture if he leant forward at his loom. What 
truth there was in this I cannot say, but not 
every weaver in Thrums could “louse” when 
his back grew sore. Nanny went to the loom 
in his place, filling as well as weaving, and he 


THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE 121 

walked about, dressed better than the common, 
and with cheerful words for those who had 
time to listen. Nanny got no approval even 
for doing his work as well as her own, for they 
were understood to have money, and Sanders 
let us think her merely greedy. We drifted 
into his opinions. 

Had Jess been one of those who could go 
about, she would, I think, have read Nanny 
better than the rest of us, for her intellect was 
bright, and always led her straight to her 
neighbors’ hearts. But Nanny visited no one, 
and so Jess only knew her by hearsay. Nan- 
ny’s standoffish ness, as it was called, was not 
a popular virtue, and she was blamed still 
more for trying to keep her husband out of 
other people’s houses. He was so frank and 
full of gossip, and she was so reserved. He 
would go everywhere, and she nowhere. He 
had been known to ask neighbors to tea, and 
she had shown that she wanted them away, or 
even begged them not to come. We were not 
accustomed to go behind the face of a thing, 
and so we set down Nanny’s inhospitality to 


122 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


churlishness or greed. Only after her death, 
when other women had to attend him, did we 
get to know what a tyrant Sanders was at his 
own hearth. The ambition of Nanny’s life 
was that we should never know it, that we 
should continue extolling him, and say what 
we chose about herself. She knew that if we 
went much about the house and saw how he 
treated her, Sanders would cease to be a re- 
spected man in Thrums. 

So neat in his dress was Sanders, that he 
was seldom seen abroad in corduroys. His 
blue bonnet for everyday wear was such as 
even well-to-do farmers only wore at fair-time, 
and it was said that he had a handkerchief for 
every day in the week. Jess often held him 
up to Hendry as a model of courtesy and polite 
manners. 

“Him an’ Nanny’s no weel matched,” she 
used to say, “for he has grand ideas, an’ she’s 
o’ the commonest. It maun be a richt trial to 
a man wi’ his fine tastes to hae a wife ’at’s 
wrapper’s never even on, an’ wha doesnawash 
her mutch aince in a month.” 


THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. 


123 


It is true that Nanny was a slattern, but 
only because she married into slavery. She 
was kept so busy washing and ironing for 
Sanders that she ceased to care how she looked 
herself. What did it matter whether her 
mutch was clean? Weaving and washing and 
cooking, doing the work of a breadwinner as 
well as of a housewife, hers was soon a body 
prematurely old, on which no wrapper would 
sit becomingly. Before her face, Sanders 
would hint that her slovenly ways and dress 
tried him sorely, and in company at least she 
only bowed her head. We were given to re- 
specting those who worked hard, hut Nanny, 
we thought, was a woman of means, and San- 
ders let us call her a miser. He was always 
anxious, he said, to he generous, but Nanny 
would not let him assist a starving child. 
They had really not a penny beyond what 
Nanny earned at the loom, and now we know 
how Sanders shook her if she did not earn 
enough. His vanity was responsible for the 
story about her wealth, and she would not 
have us think him vain. 


124 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Because she did so much, we said that she 
was as strong as a cart-horse. The doctor who 
attended her during the last week of her life 
discovered that she had never been well. Yet 
we had often wondered at her letting Sanders 
pit his own potatoes when he was so unable. 

“Them ’at’s strong, ye see,” Sanders ex- 
plained, “doesna ken what illness is, an’ so it’s 
nat’ral they shouldna sympathize wi’ onweel 
fowk. Ay, I’m rale thankfu’ ’at Nanny keeps 
her health. I often envy her.” 

These were considered creditable sentiments, 
and so they might have been had Nanny ut- 
tered them. Thus easily Sanders built up a 
reputation for never complaining. I know 
now that he was a hard and cruel man, who 
should have married a shrew ; but while Nanny 
lived I thought he had a beautiful nature. 
Many a time I have spoken with him at Hen- 
dry’s gate, and felt the better of his heartiness. 

“I mauna complain, ” he always said ; “na, 
we maun juist fecht awa.” 

Little, indeed, had he to complain of, and 
little did he fight away. 


THE TRAGEDY OF A WIFE. 


125 


Sanders went twice to church every Sabbath, 
and thrice when he got the chance. There was 
no man who joined so lustily in singing or 
looked straighter at the minister during the 
prayer. I have heard the minister say that 
Sanders’ constant attendance was an encour- 
agement and a help to him. Nanny had been 
a great church-goer when she was a maiden, 
but after her marriage she only went in the 
afternoons, and a time came when she ceased 
altogether to attend. The minister admon- 
ished her many times, telling her, among other 
things, that her irreligious ways were a dis- 
tress to her husband. She never replied that 
she could not go to church in the forenoon, be- 
cause Sanders insisted on a hot meal being 
waiting him when the services ended. But it 
was true that Sanders, for appearances’ sake, 
would have had her go to church in the after- 
noon. It is now believed that on this point 
alone did she refuse to do as she was bidden. 
Nanny was very far from perfect, and the 
reason she forsook the kirk utterly was be- 
cause she had no Sabbath clothes. 


126 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


She died as she had lived, saying not a word 
when the minister, thinking it his duty, drew 
a cruel comparison between her life and her 
husband’s. 

“I got my first glimpse into the real state 
of affairs in that house,” the doctor told me 
one night on the brae, the day before she died. 
‘You’re sure there’s no hope for me?” she 
asked wistfully and when I had to tell the 
truth she sank back on the pillow with a look 
of joy.” 

Nanny died with a lie on her lips. “ Ay, ” she 
said, “Sanders has been a guid man to me.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 

Hendry had a way of resuming a conver- 
sation where he had left off the night before. 
He would revolve a topic in his mind, too, and 
then begin aloud, “He’s a queer ane,” or, 
“Say ye so?” which was at times perplexing. 
With the whole day before them, none of 
the family was inclined to waste strength in 
talk ; but one morning when he was blowing 
the steam off his porridge, Hendry said, sud- 
denly : 

“He’s hame again.” 

The women-folk gave him time to say to 
whom he was referring, which he occasion- 
ally did as an after-thought. But he began 
to sup his porridge, making eyes as it went 
steaming down his throat. 

“ I dinna ken wha ye mean,” Jess said, while 
127 


128 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Leeby, who was on her knees rubbing the 
hearthstone a bright blue, paused to catch her 
father’s answer. 

“Jeames Geogehan,” replied Hendry, with 
the horn spoon in his mouth. 

Leeby turned to Jess for enlightenment. 

“ Geogehan, ” repeated Jess; “what! no lit- 
tle Jeames ’at ran awa? ” 

“Ay, ay, but he’s a muckle stoot man noo, 
an’ gey gray.” 

“Ou, I dinna wonder at that. It’s a guid 
forty year since he ran off.” 

“ I waurant ye couldna say exact hoo lang 
syne it is? ” 

Hendry asked this question because Jess was 
notorious for her memory, and he gloried in 
putting it to the test. 

“Let’s see,” she said. 

“But wha is he?” asked Leeby. “I never 
kent nae Geogehans in Thrums.” 

“Weel, it’s forty-one years syne come Mi- 
chaelmas,” said Jess. 

“Hoo do ye ken? ” 

“I ken fine. Ye mind his father had been 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 


129 


lickin’ ’im, an’ he ran awa in a passion, cry in’ 
oot ’at he would never come back? Ay, then, 
he had a pair o’ boots on at the time, an’ his 
father ran after ’im an’ took them aff ’im. 
The boots was the last ’at Davie Mearns made, 
an’ it’s fully ane-an’ -forty years since Davie fell 
ower the quarry on the day o’ the hill-market. 
That settles’t. Ay, an’ Jeames’ll be turned 
fifty noo, for he was cornin’ on for ten year auld 
at that time. Ay, ay, an’ he’s come back. 
What a state Eppie’ll be in! ” 

“Tell’s wha he is, mother.” 

“Od, he’s Eppie Guthrie’s son. Her man 
was William Geogehan, but he died afore you 
was born, an’ as Jeames was their only bairn, 
the name o’ Geogehan ’s been a kind o’ lost 
sicht o’. Hae ye seen him, Hendry? Is’t 
true ’at he made a fortune in thae far-awa 
countries? Eppie’ll be blawin’ aboot him 
richt?” 

“ There’s nae doot aboot the siller,” said 
Hendry, “ for he drove in a carriage frae Tillie- 
drum, an’ they say he needs a closet to hang 

his claes in, there’s sic a heap o’ them. Ay, 
9 


130 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


but that’s no a’ he’s brocht, na, far frae 
a’.” 

“Dinna gang awa till ye’ve telt’s a’ aboot 
’im. What mair has he brocht?” 

“He’s brocht a wife,” said Hendry, twisting 
his face curiously. 

“There’s naething surprisin’ in that.” 

“Ay, but there is, though. Ye see, Eppie 
had a letter frae ’im no mony weeks syne, say- 
in’ ’at he wasna deid, an’ he was cornin’ hame 
wi’ a fortune. He said, too, ’at he was a sin- 
gle man, an’ she’s been boastin’ aboot that, so 
ye may think ’at she got a surprise when he 
hands a wuman oot o’ the carriage.” 

“An’ no a pleasant ane,” said Jess. “Had 
he been leein’?” 

“Na, he was single when he wrote, an’ sin- 
gle when he got the length o’ Tilliedrum. 
Ye see, he fell in wi’ the lassie there, an’ juist 
gaed clean aft his heid aboot her. After man- 
agin’ to withstand the women o’ foreign lands 
for a’ thae years, he gaed fair skeer aboot this 
stocky at Tilliedrum. She’s juist seventeen 
year auld, an’ the auld fule sits wi’ his airm 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 131 

round her in Eppie’s hoose, though they’ve 
been mairit this fortnicht.” 

“The doited fule,” said Jess. 

Jeames Geogehan and his bride became the 
talk of Thrums, and Jess saw them from her 
window several times. The first time she had 
only eyes for the jacket with fur round it 
worn by Mrs. Geogehan, but subsequently she 
took in Jeames. 

“He’s tryin’ to carry’t aff wi’ his heid in 
the air,” she said, “but I can see he’s fell 
shamefaced, an’ nae wonder. Ay, I sepad he’s 
mair ashamed o’t in his heart than she is. It’s 
an awful like thing o’ a lassie to marry an 
auld man. She had dune’t for the siller. Ay, 
there’s pounds’ worth o’ fur aboot that jacket.” 

“They say she had siller hersel’,” said Tibbie 
Birse. 

“Dinna tell me,” said Jess. “I ken by her 
wyo’ carry in’ hersel’ ’at she never had a jacket 
like that afore.” 

Eppie was not the only person in Thrums 
whom this marriage enraged. Stories had 
long been alive of Jeames’ fortune, which his 


132 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


cousins’ children were some day to divide 
among themselves, and as a consequence these 
young men and women looked on Mrs. Geoge- 
han as a thief. 

“ Dinna bring the wife to our hoose, Jeames, ” 
one of them told him, “for we would he fair 
ashamed to hae her. We used to hae a respect 
for yer name, so we couldna look her i’ the 
face.” 

“She’s mair like yer dochter than yer wife,” 
said another. 

“Na,” said a third, “naebody could mistak 
her for yer dochter. She’s ower young-like 
for that.” 

“Wi’ the siller you’ll leave her, Jeames,” 
Tammas Haggart told him, “she’ll get a 
younger man for her second venture.” 

All this was very trying to the newly-mar- 
ried man, who was thirsting for sympathy. 
Hendry was the person whom he took into his 
confidence. 

“It may hae been foolish at my time o’ life,” 
Hendry reported him to have said, “but I 
couldna help it. If they juist kent her better 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 


138 


they couldna but see ’at she’s a terrible takkin’ 
crittur.” 

Jeames was generous ; indeed, he had come 
home with the intention of scattering largess. 
A beggar met him one day on the brae, and 
got a shilling from him. She was waving her 
arms triumphantly as she passed Hendry’s 
house, and Leeby got the story from her. 

“Eh, he’s a fine man that, an’ a saft ane,” 
the woman said. “I juist speired at ’im 
hoo his bonny wife was, an’ he oot wi’ a 
shillin’ ! ” 

Leeby did not keep this news to herself, and 
soon it was through the town. Jeames’ face 
began to brighten. 

“They’re cornin’ round to a mair sensible 
wy o’ lookin’ at things,” he told Hendry. “I 
was walkin’ wi’ the wife i’ the buryin’ -ground 
yesterday, an’ we met Kitty McQueen. She 
was ane o’ the warst agin me at first, but she 
telt me i’ the buryin ’-ground ’at when a man 
marrit he should please ’imsel’. Oh, they’re 
cornin’ round.” 

What Kitty told Jess was: 


134 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“ I minded o’ the tinkler wuman ’at he gae a 
shillin’ to, so I thocht I would butter up at the 
auld fule too. Weel, I assure ye, I had nae 
suner said ’at he was rale wise to marry wha 
he likit than he slips a pound note into my 
hand. Ou, Jess, we’ve ta’en the wrang wy 
wi’ Jeames. I’ve telt a’ my bairns ’at if they 
meet him they’re to praise the wife terrible, 
an’ I’m far mista’en if that doesna mean five 
shillin’ s to ilka ane o’ them.” 

Jean Whamond got a pound note for saying 
that Jeames’ wife had an uncommon pretty 
voice, and Davit Lunan had ten shillings for a 
judicious word about her attractive manners. 
Tibbie Birse invited the newly-married couple 
to tea (one pound) . 

“They’re takkin’ to her, they’re takkin’ to 
her,” Jeames said, gleefully. “I kent they 
would come round in time. Ay, even my 
mother, ’at was sae mad at first, sits for hours 
noo aside her, haudin’ her hand. They’re 
juist inseparable.” 

The time came when we had Mr. and Mrs. 
Geogehan and Eppie to tea. 

“It’s true enough,” Leeby ran ben to tell 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 


135 


Jess, “ ’at Eppie an’ the wife’s fond o’ ane an- 
other. I wouldna hae believed it o’ Eppie if I 
hadna seen it, but I assure ye they sat even at 
the tea-table haudin’ ane another’s hands. 
I waurant they’re doin’ t this meenute.” 

“ I wasna born on a Sabbath,” retorted Jess. 
“Na, na, dinna tell me Eppie ’s fond o’ her. 
Tell Eppie to come but to the kitchen when the 
tea’s ower.” 

Jess and Eppie had half an hour’s conver- 
sation alone, and then our guests left. 

It’s a richt guid thing,” said Hendry, “’at 
Eppie has ta’en sic a notion o’ the wife.” 

“Ou, ay,” said Jess. 

Then Hendry hobbled out of the house. 

“What said Eppie to ye?” Leehy asked her 
mother. 

“Juist what I expeckit,” Jess answered. 
“Ye see, she’s dependent on Jeames, so she has 
to butter up at him.” 

“Did she say ony thing aboot haudin’ the 
wife’s hand sae fond-like? ” 

“Ay, she said it was an awfu’ trial to her, 
an’ ’at it sickened her to see Jeames an’ the 
wife baith believin’ ’at she likit to do’t.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 

On bringing home his bride, the minister 
showed her to us, and we thought she would 
do when she realized that she was not the min- 
ister. She was a grand lady from Edinburgh, 
though very frank, and we simple folk amused 
her a good deal, especially when we were sit- 
ting cowed in the manse parlor drinking a dish 
of tea wdth her, as happened to Leeby, her fa- 
ther, and me, three days before Jamie came 
home. 

Leeby had refused to be drawn into conver- 
sation, like one who knew her place, yet all 
her actions were genteel and her monosyllabic 
replies in the Englishy tongue, as of one who 
was, after all, a little above the common. 
When the minister’s wife asked her whether 

she took sugar and cream, she said politely, 
136 


VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 137 

“If you please” (though she did not take su- 
gar), a reply that contrasted with Hendry’s 
equally well-intended answer to the same ques- 
tion. “Pm no partikler,” was what Hendry 
said. 

Hendry had left home glumly, declaring 
that the white collar Jess had put on him 
would throttle him ; but her f eikieness ended 
in his surrender, and he was looking unusually 
per jink. Had not his daughter been present 
he would have been the most at ease of the 
company, but her manners were too fine not to 
make an impression upon one who knew her on 
her every-day behavior, and she had also ways 
of bringing Hendry to himself by a touch be- 
neath the table. It was in church that Leeby 
brought to perfection her manner of looking 
after her father. When he had confidence in 
the preacher’s soundness, he would sometimes 
have slept in his pew if Leeby had not had a 
watchful foot. She wakened him in an instant, 
while still looking modestly at the pulpit ; how- 
ever reverently he might try to fall over, 
Leeby ’s foot went out. She was such an artist 


138 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


that I never caught her in the act. All I knew 
for certain was that, now and then, Hendry 
suddenly sat up. 

The ordeal was over when Leeby went up- 
stairs to put on her things. After tea Hendry 
had become bolder in talk, his subject being 
ministerial. He had an extraordinary knowl- 
edge, got no one knew where, of the matri- 
monial affairs of all the ministers of these 
parts, and his stories about them ended fre- 
quently with a chuckle. He always took it for 
granted that a minister’s marriage was wom- 
anhood’s great triumph, and that the par- 
ticular woman who got him must he very 
clever. Some of his tales were even more 
curious than he thought them, such as the one 
Leeby tried to interrupt by saying we must he 
going. 

“ There’s Mr. Pennycuick, noo,” said Hen- 
dry, shaking his head in wonder at what he 
had to tell; “him ’at’s minister at Tilliedrum. 
Weel, when he was a probationer he was 
michty poor, an’ ane day he was walkin’ into 
Thrums frae Glen Quharity, an’ he taks a rest 


VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 


139 


at a little housey on the road. The fowk didna 
ken him ava, but they saw he was a minister, 
an’ the lassie was sorry to see him wi’ sic an 
auld hat. What think ye she did? ” 

“Come away, father,” said Leeby, re-enter- 
ing the parlor; but Hendry was now in full 
pursuit of his story. 

“I’ll tell ye what she did,” he continued. 
“She juist took his hat awa, an’ put her fa- 
ther’s new ane in its place, an’ Mr. Penny cuick 
never kent the differ till he landed in Thrums. 
It was terrible kind o’ her. Ay, but the auld 
man would be in a michty rage when he found 
she had swappit the hats.” 

“Come away,” said Leeby, still politely, 
though she was burning to tell her mother 
how Hendry had disgraced them. 

“The minister,” said Hendry, turning his 
back on Leeby, “didna forget the lassie. Na, 
as sune as he got a kirk, he married her. Ay, 
she got her reward. He married her. It was 
rale noble of ’im.” 

I do not know what Leeby said to Hendry 
when she got him beyond the manse gate, for 


140 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


I stayed behind to talk to the minister. As it 
turned out, the minister’s wife did most of the 
talking, smiling good-humoredly at country 
gawkiness the while. 

“ Yes, ’’she said, “I am sure I shall like 
Thrums, though those teas to the congregation 
are a little trying. Do you know, Thrums is 
the only place I was ever in where it struck me 
that the men are cleverer than the women.” 

She told us why. 

“Well, to-night affords a case in point. 
Mr. McQumpha was quite brilliant, was he not, 
in comparison with his daughter? Really, she 
seemed so put out at being at the manse that 
she could not raise her eyes. I question if she 
would know me again, and I am sure she sat 
in the room as one blindfolded. I left her in 
the bedroom a minute, and I assure you, 
when I returned she was still standing on the 
same spot in the centre of the floor.” 

I pointed out that Leeby had been awestruck. 

“I suppose so,” she said; “but it is a pity 
she cannot make use of her eyes, if not of her 
tongue. Ah, the Thrums women are good, I 


VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 


141 


believe, but their wits are sadly in need of 
sharpening. I dare say it comes of living in 
so small a place.” 

I overtook Leeby on the brae, aware, as I 
saw her alone, that it had been her father 
whom I passed talking to Tammas Haggart in 
the square. Hendry stopped to have what he 
called a tove with any likely person he encoun- 
tered, and, indeed, though he and I often took 
a walk on Saturdays, I generally lost him be- 
fore we were clear of the town. 

In a few moments Leeby and I were at home 
to give Jess the news. 

“Whaur’s yer father?” asked Jess, as if 
Hendry’s way of dropping behind was still un- 
known to her. 

“Ou, I left him speakin’ to Gavin Birse,” 
said Leeby. “I daur say he’s awa to some 
hoose.” 

“ It’s no very silvendy (safe) his cornin’ ower 
the brae by himsel’,” said Jess, adding in a bit- 
ter tone of conviction, “but he’ll gang in to no 
hoose as lang as he’s so weel dressed. Na, he 
would think it boastfu’.” 


142 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


I sat down to a book by the kitchen fire; 
but, as Leeby became communicative, I read 
less and less. While she spoke she was baking 
bannocks with all the might of her, and Jess, 
leaning forward in her chair, was arranging 
them in a semicircle round the fire. 

“Na,” was the first remark of Leeby ’s that 
came between me and my book, “ it is no new 
furniture.” 

“But there was three cart-loads o’t, Leeby, 
sent on frae Edinbory. Tibbie Birse helpit to 
lift it in, and she said the parlor furniture beat 
a’.” 

“Ou, it’s substantial, but it is no new. I 
sepad it had been bocht cheap second-hand, for 
the chair I had was terrible scratched like, an’ 
what’s mair, the airm-chair was a heap shin- 
nier than the rest.” 

“Ay, ay, I wager it had been new stuffed. 
Tibbie said the carpet cowed for grandeur.” 

“Oh, I dinna deny it’s a guid carpet; but if 
it’s been turned once it’s been turned half a 
dozen times, so it’s far frae new. Ay, an’ 
forby, it was rale threadbare aneath the table, 


VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 


143 


so ye may be sure they’ve been cuttin’t an’ 
puttin’ the worn pairt whaur it would be least 
seen.” 

“ They say ’at there’s twa grand gas brack- 
ets i’ the parlor, an’ a wonderfu’ gasoliery 
i’ the dinin’ -room.” 

“We wasna i’ the dinin’ -room, so I ken 
naething aboot the gasoliery; but I’ll tell ye 
what the gas brackets is. I recognized them 
immeditly. Ye mind the auld gasoliery i’ the 
dinin’ -room had twa lichts? Ay, then, the 
parlor brackets is made oot o’ the auld gaso- 
liery.” 

“ Weel, Leeby, as sure as ye’re standin’ 
there, that passed through my head as sune as 
Tibbie mentioned them ! ” 

“ There’s nae doot about it. Ay, I was in 
ane o’ the bedrooms, too! ” 

“ It would be grand? ” 

“I wouldna say ’at it was partikler grand, 
but there was a great mask (quantity) o’ 
things in’t, an’ near everything was covered 
wi’ cretonne. But the chairs dinna match. 
There was a very bonny-painted cloth alang 


144 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


the chimley — what they call a mantelpiece 
border, I warrant.” 

“Sal, I’ve often wondered what they was.” 

“ Weel, I assure ye they winna he ill to mak, 
for the border was juist nailed upon a board 
laid on the chimley. There’s naething to hen- 
der’s makkin’ ane for the room.” 

“Ay, we could sew something on the border 
instead o’ paintin’t. The room lookit weel, ye 
say? ” 

“Yes, but it was economically furnished. 
There was nae carpet below the wax-cloth ; na, 
there was nane below the bed either.” 

“ Was’t a grand bed? ” 

“It had a fell lot o’ brass aboot it, but there 
was juist one pair o’ blankets. I thocht it was 
gey shabby, ha’en the ewer a different pattern 
frae the basin; ay, an’ there was juist a poker 
in the fireplace — there was nae tangs.” 

“Yea, yea; they’ll hae but one set o’ bed- 
room fire-irons. The tangs’ll be in anither 
room. Tod, that’s no sae michty grand for 
Edinbory. What like was she hersel’? ” 

“ Ou, very ladylike and saft spoken. She’s 


VISITORS AT THE MANSE. 14 & 

a canty body an’ frank. She wears her hair 
low on the left side to hod (hide) a scar, an’ 
there’s twa warts on her richt hand.” 

“ There had na been a fire i’ the parlor? ” 

“ No, but it was ready to licht. There was 
sticks and paper in’t. The paper was oot o’ 
a dressmaker’s journal.” 

“Ye say so? She’ll mak her ain frocks, I 
sepad.” 

When Hendry entered to take off his collar 
and coat before sitting down to his evening 
meal of hot water, porter, and bread mixed in 
a bowl, Jess sent me off to the attic. As I 
climbed the stairs I remembered that the min- 
ister’s wife thought Leeby in need of sharp- 
ening. 

10 


CHAPTER XV. 

HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT TO MAG LOWNIE. 

In a wet day the rain gathered in blobs on 
the road that passed our garden. Then it 
crawled into the cart-tracks until the road was 
streaked with water. Lastly, the water gath- 
ered in heavy yellow pools. If the on-ding 
still continued, clods of earth toppled from the 
garden dyke into the ditch. 

On such a day, when even the dulseman had 
gone into shelter, and the women scudded by 
with their wrappers over their heads, came 
Gavin Birse to our door. Gavin, who was the 
Glen Quharity post, was still young, but had 
never been quite the same man since some 
amateurs in the glen ironed his hack for rheu- 
matism. I thought he had called to have a 

crack with me. He sent his compliments up 
146 


HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT. 


147 


to the attic, however, by Leeby, and would I 
come and be a witness? 

Gavin came up and explained. He had 
taken off his scarf and thrust it into his pocket, 
lest the rain should take the color out of it. 
His hoots cheeped, and his shoulders had risen 
to his ears. He stood steaming before my 
fire. 

“If it’s no’ ower muckle to ask ye,” he said, 
“I would like ye for a witness.” 

“ A witness ! But for what do you need a 
witness, Gavin? ” 

“I want ye,” he said, “to come wi’ me to 
Mag’s, and be a witness.” 

Gavin and Mag Birse had been engaged for 
a year or more. Mag was the daughter of Ja- 
net Ogilvy, who was best remembered as the 
body that took the hill (that is, wandered about 
it) for twelve hours on the day Mr. Disbart, 
the Auld Licht minister, accepted a call to an- 
other church. 

“You don’t mean to tell me, Gavin,” I 
asked, “that your marriage is to take place to- 
day? ” 


148 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


By the twist of his mouth I saw that he was 
only deferring a smile. 

“Far frae that,” he said. 

“Ah, then, you have quarrelled, and I am 
to speak up for you? ” 

“Na, na,” he said, “I dinna want ye to do 
that above all things. It would be a favor if 
ye could gie me a had character.” 

This heat me, and, I dare say, my face 
showed it. 

“I’m no’ juist what ye would call anxious 
to marry Mag noo,” said Gavin, without a 
tremor. 

I told him to go on. 

“There’s a lassie oot at Craigiebuckle, ” he 
explained, “ workin’ on the farm — Jeanie Luke 
by name. Ye may hae seen her? ” 

“What of her? ” I asked, severely. 

“Weel,” said Gavin, still unabashed, “I’m 
thinkin’ noo ’at I would rather hae her.” 

Then he stated his case more fully. 

“Ay, I thocht I like Mag oncommon till I 
saw Jeanie, an’ I like her fine yet, but I prefer 
the other ane. That state o’ matters canna 


HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT. 


149 


gang on forever, so I came into Thrums the 
day to settle’t one wy or another.” 

“ And how,” I asked, “do you propose going 
about it? It is a somewhat delicate business.” 

“Ou, I see nae great difficulty in’t. I’ll 
speir at Mag, blunt oot, if she’ll let me aff. 
Yes, I’ll put it to her plain.” 

“You’re sure Jeanie would take you? ” 
“Ay; oh, there’s nae fear o’ that.” 

“ But if Mag keeps you to your bargain? ” 

“ Weel, in that case there’s nae harm done.” 
“You are in a great hurry, Gavin? ” 

“Ye may say that; but I want to he mar- 
ried. The wifie I lodge wi’ canna last lang, 
an’ I would like to settle doon in some place.” 
“So you are on your way to Mag’s now? ” 
“Ay, we’ll get her in at ween twal’ and 
ane.” 

“Oh, yes; but why do you want me to go 
with you? ” 

“I want ye for a witness. If she winna let 
me aff, weel an’ guid ; an’ if she will, it’s bet- 
ter to hae a witness in case she should go hack 
on her word.” 


150 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Gavin made his proposal briskly, and as coolly 
as if he were only asking me to go fishing ; hut 
I did not accompany him to Mag’s. He left 
the house to look for another witness, and 
about an hour afterward Jess saw him pass 
with Tammas Haggart. Tammas cried in 
during the evening to tell us how the mission 
prospered. 

“Mind ye,” said Tammas, a drop of water 
hanging to the point of his nose, “ I disclaim 
all responsibility in the business. I ken Mag 
weel for a thrifty, respectable woman, as her 
mither was afore her, an’ so I said to Gavin 
when he came to speir me.” 

“Ay, mony a pirn has ’Lisbeth filled to me,” 
said Hendry, settling down to a reminiscence. 

“No to he ower hard on Gavin,” continued 
Tammas, forestalling Hendry, “he took what I 
said in guid part; hut aye when I stopped 
speakin’ to draw breath, he says, ‘The question 
is, will ye come wi’ me?’ He was michty 
made up in ’s mind.” 

“Weel, ye went wi’ him,” suggested Jess, 
who wanted to bring Tammas to the point. 


HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT. 151 

“Ay,” said the stone -breaker, “but no in sic 
a hurry as that.” 

He worked his mouth round and round, to 
clear the course as it were for a sarcasm. 

“Fowk often say,” he continued, “ ’at ’am 
quick beyond the ordinar’ in seein’ the humor- 
ous side o’ things.” 

Here Tammas paused and looked at us. 

“ So ye are, Tammas, ” said Hendry. “ Losh, 
ye mind boo ye saw the humorous side o’ me 
wearin’ a pair o’ hoots ’at wisna marrows! 
No, the ane had a toe-piece on, an’ the other 
hadna. ” 

“Ye juistwore them sometimes when ye was 
delvin’,” broke in Jess; “ye have as guid a 
pair o’ boots as ony in Thrums.” 

“Ay, but I had worn them,” said Hendry, 
“ at odd times for mair than a year, an’ I had 
never seen the humorous side o’ them. Weel, 
as fac as death (here he addressed me), Tam- 
mas had juist seen them twa or three times 
when he saw the humorous side o’ them. 
Syne I saw their humorous side, too, but no 
till Tammas pointed it oot.” 


152 A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 

“That was naetbing,” said Tammas, “nae 
thing ava to some things I’ve done.” 

“But what aboot Mag? ” said Leeby. 

“We wasna that length, was we?” said 
Tammas. “Na, we was speakin’ aboot the 
humorous side. Ay, wait a wee, I didna men- 
tion the humorous side for naething.” 

He paused to reflect. 

“Oh, yes,” he said at last, brightening up. 
“I was say in’ to ye hoo quick I was to see 
the humorous side o’ ony thing. Ay, then, 
what made me say that was ’at in a clink 
(flash) I saw the humorous side o’ Gavin’s 
position.” 

“Man, man, ’’said Hendry, admiringly, “an’ 
what is ’t? ” 

“Oh, it’s this: there’s something humorous 
in speirin’ a woman to let ye aff so as ye can 
be married to another woman.” 

“I daur say there is,” said Hendry, doubt- 
fully. 

“ Did she let him aff ? ” asked Jess, taking the 
words out of Leeby ’s mouth. 

“I’m cornin’ to that,” said Tammas. “Ga- 


HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT. 153 

vin proposes to me after I had ha’en my 
laugh ” 

“ Yes,” cried Hendry, banging the table with 
his fist, “it has a humorous side. Ye’re richt 
again, Tammas.” 

“I wish ye wadna blatter (heat) the table,” 
said Jess, and then Tammas proceeded : 

“Gavin wanted me to tak paper an’ ink an’ 
a pen wi’ me, to write the proceedin’s doon, 
but I said, ‘Na, na, I’ll tak paper, but nae 
ink nor nae pen, for there’ll be ink an’ a pen 
there.’ That was what I said.” 

“An’ did she let him aff? ” asked Leeby. 

“Weel,” said Tammas, “aff we goes to 
Mag’s hoose, an’ sure enough Mag was in. 
She was alane, too ; so Gavin, no to waste time, 
juist sat doon for politeness’ sake, an’ sune 
rises up again ; an’ says he, ‘Marget Lownie, I 
hae a solemn question to speir at ye, namely 
this, Will you, Marget Lownie, let me, Gavin 
Birse, aff ” 

“Mag would start at that? ” 

“Sal, she was braw an’ cool. I thocht she 
maun hae got wind o’ his intentions afore- 


154 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


hand, for she juist replies, quiet-like, ‘Hoo do 
ye want aff, Gavin ?’ 

“ ‘Because,’ says he, like a hook, ‘my affec- 
tions has undergone a change. ’ 

“‘Ye mean Jean Luke,’ says Mag. 

“‘That is wha I mean,’ says Gavin, very 
straitforrard. ” 

“But she didna let him aff, did she? ” 

“Na, she wasna the kind. Says she, ‘I 
wonder to hear ye, Gavin, but ’am no goin’ 
to agree to nae thing o’ that sort.’ 

“‘Think it ower,’ says Gavin. 

“‘Na, my mind’s made up,’ said she. 

“‘Ye would sune get anither man,’ he says, 
earnestly. 

“‘Hoo do I ken that?’ she speirs, rale sen- 
sibly, I thocht, for men’s no sae easy to get. 

‘“Am sure o’ ’t, ’ Gavin says, wi’ michty 
conviction in his voice, ‘for ye’re bonny to look 
at, an’ weel kent for bein’ a guid body.’ 

“‘Ay,’ says Mag, ‘I’m glad ye like me, Ga- 
vin, for ye have to tak me. ’ ” 

“That put a clincher on him,” interrupted 
Hendry. 


HOW GAVIN BIRSE PUT IT. 155 

“He was loth to gie in, ’’replied Tammas, so 
he says, 4 Ye think ’am a fine character, Mar- 
get Lownie, but ye’re very far mista’en. I 
wouldna wonder but what I was lossin’ my 
place some o’ thae days, an’ syne whaur would 
ye be? — Marget Lownie, ’ he goes on, ’am nat’- 
rally lazy an’ fond o’ the drink. As sure as 
ye stand there, ’am a reg’lar deevil! ’ ” 

44 That was strong language,” said Hendry, 
but he would be wantin’ to fleg (frighten) 
her? ” 

“ Juist so, but he didna manage ’t, for Mag 
says: 4 We a’ ha’e oor faults, Gavin, an’ deevil 
or no deevil, ye’re the man for me! ” 

44 Gavin thocht a bit,” continued Tammas, 
44 an’ syne he tries her on a new tack. ‘Mar- 
get Lownie,’ he says, 4 ye ’re father’s an auld 
man noo, an’ he has naebody but yersel’ to look 
after him. I’m thinkin’ it would be kind o’ 
cruel o’ me to tak ye awa frae him? ’ ” 

44 Mag wouldna be ta’en in wi’ that; she 
wasna born on a Sawbath,” said Jess, using 
one of her favorite sayings. 

44 She wasna,” answered Tammas. 44 Says 


156 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


she, ‘Hae nae fear on that score, Gavin; my 
father’s fine willin’ to spare me! ’ ” 

“An’ that ended it?” 

“Ay, that ended it.” 

“Did ye tak it doon in writin’?” asked 
Hendry. 

“There was nae need,” said Tammas, hand- 
ing round his snuff-mull. “No, I never 
touched paper. When I saw the thing was 
settled, I left them to their coortin’. They’re 
to tak a look at Snecky Hobart’s auld hoose 
the nicht. It’s to let.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE SON FROM LONDON. 

In the spring of the year there used to come 
to Thrums a painter from nature, whom Hen- 
dry spoke of as the drawer. He lodged with 
Jess in my attic, and when the weavers met 
him they said, “Weel, drawer,” and then 
passed on, grinning. Tammas Haggart was 
the first to say this. 

The drawer was held a poor man because he 
straggled about the country looking for sub- 
jects for his draws; and Jess, as was her way, 
gave him many comforts for which she would 
not charge. That, I dare say, was why he 
painted for her a little portrait of Jamie. 
When the drawer came back to Thrums he al- 
ways found the painting in a frame in the 
room. Here I must make a confession about 

Jess. She did not in her secret mind think the 
157 


158 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


portrait quite the thing, and as soon as the 
drawer departed it was removed from the frame 
to make way for a calendar. The deception 
was very innocent, Jess being anxious not to 
hurt the donor’s feelings. 

To those who have the artist’s eye, the pict- 
ure, which hangs in my school-house now, 
does not show a handsome lad, Jamie being 
short and dapper, with straw-colored hair, and 
a chin that ran away into his neck. That is 
how I once regarded him, but I have little 
heart for criticism of those I like, and, despite 
his madness for a season, of which, alas ! I shall 
have to tell, I am always Jamie’s friend. Even 
to hear any one disparaging the appearance of 
Jess’ son is to me a pain. 

All Jess’ acquaintances knew that in the 
beginning of every month a registered letter 
reached her from London. To her it was not a 
matter to keep secret. She was proud that the 
help she and Hendry needed in the gloaming 
of their lives should come from her beloved son, 
and the neighbors esteemed Jamie because he 
was good to his mother. Jess had more humor 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 


159 


than any other woman I have known, while 
Leeby was but sparingly endowed ; yet, as the 
month neared its close, it was the daughter 
who put on the humorist, Jess thinking money 
too serious a thing to jest about. Then if 
Leeby had a moment for gossip, as when iron- 
ing a dickey for Hendry, and the iron was a 
trifle too hot, she would look archly at me be- 
fore addressing her mother in these words: 

“Will he send, think ye? ” 

Jess, who had a conviction that he would 
send, affected surprise at the question. 

“Will Jamie send this month, do ye mean? 
Na, oh, losh no! it’s no to be expeckit. Na, 
he couldna do’t this time.” 

“ That’s what ye aye say, but he aye sends. 
Yes, an’ vara weel ye ken ’at he will send.” 

“Na, na, Leeby; dinna let me ever think o’ 
sic a thing this month.” 

“As if ye wasna thinkin’ o’t day an’ nicht!” 

“He’s terrible mindfu’, Leeby, but he does- 
na hae’t. Na, no this month; mebbe next 
month.” 

“Do you mean to tell me, mother, at ye’ll 


160 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


no be up oot o’ yer bed on Monunday an hour 
afore yer usual time, lookin’ for the post? ” 
“Na, no this time. I may be up, an’ tak a 
look for ’im, but no expeckin’ a registerdy; na 
na, that wouldna be reasonable.” 

“Reasonable here, reasonable there, up you’ll 
be, keekin’ (peering) through the blind to see 
if the post’s cornin’, ay, an’ what’s mair, the 
post will come, and a registerdy in his hand 
wi’ fifteen shillings in’t at the least.” 

“Dinna say fifteen, Leeby; I would never 

think o’ sic a sum. Mebbe five ” 

“Five! I wonder to hear .ye. Yera weel 
you ken ’at since he had twenty-twa shillin’s 
in the week he’s never sent less than half a 
sovereign. ” 

“No, but we canna expeck ” 

“ Expect ! No, but it’s no expeck — it’s get. ” 
On the Monday morning when I came down 
stairs, Jess was in her chair by the window, 
beaming, a piece of paper in her hand. I did 
not require to bo told about it, but I was told. 
Jess had been up before Leeby could get the 
fire lit, with great difficulty reaching the win- 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 


161 


dow in her bare feet, and many a time had she 
said that the post must he by. 

“ Havers,” said Leeby, “he winna be for an 
hour yet. Come awa’ back to your bed.” 

“Na, he maun be by,” Jess would say in a 
few minutes; “ou, we couldna expeck this 
month.” 

So it went on until Jess’ hand shook the 
blind. 

“He’s cornin’, Leeby, he’s cornin’. He’ll no 

hae naething, na, I couldna expeck He’s 

by!” 

“I dinna believe it,” cried Leeby, running 
to the window, “he’s juist at his tricks again.” 

This was in reference to a way our saturnine 
post had of pretending that he brought no let- 
ters and passing the door. Then he turned 
back. “Mistress McQumpha,” he cried, and 
whistled. 

“Run, Leeby, run,” said Jess excitedly. 

Leeby hastened to the door, and came back 
with a registered letter. 

“ Registerdy,” she cried in triumph, and Jess, 

with fond hands, opened the letter. By the 
11 


162 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


time I came down the money was hid away 
in a box beneath the bed, where not even Leeby 
could find it, and Jess was on her chair hug- 
ging the letter. She preserved all her regis- 
tered envelopes. 

This was the first time I had been in Thrums 
when Jamie was expected for his ten days’ 
holiday, and for a week we discussed little else. 
Though he had written saying when he would 
sail for Dundee, there was quite a possibility 
of his appearing on the brae at any moment, 
for he liked to take Jess and Leeby by surprise. 
Hendry there was no surprising, unless he was 
in the mood for it, and the coolness of him was 
one of Jess’ grievances. Just two years earlier 
Jamie came north a week before his time, and 
his father saw him from the window. Instead 
of crying out in amazement or hacking his 
face, for he was shaving at the time, Hendry 
calmly wiped his razor on the window-sill, and 
said: 

“ Ay, there’s Jamie.” 

Jamie was a little disappointed at being seen 
in this way, for he had been looking forward 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 


163 


for four and forty hours to repeating the sen- 
sation of the year before. On that occasion he 
had got to the door unnoticed, where he stopped 
to listen. I dare say he checked his breath, the 
better to catch his mother’s voice, for Jess be- 
ing an invalid, Jamie thought of her first. 
He had Leeby sworn to write the truth about 
her, hut many an anxious hour he had on 
hearing that she was “ complaining fell (con- 
siderably) about her hack the day,” Leeby, as 
he knew, being frightened to alarm him. 
Jamie, too, had given his promise to tell ex- 
actly how he was keeping, but often he wrote 
that he was “fine” when Jess had her doubts. 
When Hendry wrote he spread himself over 
the table, and said that Jess was “ juist about 
it,” or “aff and on, ’’which does not tell much. 
So Jamie hearkened painfully at the door, and 
by-and-bye heard his mother say to Leeby that 
she was sure the teapot was running out. Per- 
haps that voice was as sweet to him as the 
music of a maiden to her lover, but Jamie did 
not rush into his mother’s arms. Jess has told 
me with a beaming face how craftily he be- 


164 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


haved. The old man, of lungs that shook 
Thrums by night, who went from door to door 
selling firewood, had a way of shoving doors 
rudely open and crying: 

“Ony rozetty roots?” and him Jamie imi- 
tated. 

“ Juist think,” Jess said as she recalled the 
incident, “what a startle we got. As we 
think, Pete kicks open the door and cries oot : 
‘Ony rozetty roots?’ and Leeby says ‘No,’ and 
gangs to shut the door. Next minute she 
screeches, ‘What, what, what!’ and in walks 
Jamie! ” 

Jess was never able to decide whether it was 
more delightful to be taken aback in this way 
or to prepare for Jamie. Sudden excitement 
was bad for her according to Hendry, who got 
his medical knowledge second-hand from per- 
sons under treatment, but with Jamie’s appear- 
ance on the threshold Jess’ health began to 
improve. This time he kept to the appointed 
day, and the house was turned upside down in 
his honor. Such a polish did Leeby put on the 
flagons which hung on the kitchen wall that, 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 


165 


passing between them and the window, I 
thought once I had been struck by lightning. 
On the morning of the day that was to bring 
him, Leeby was up at two o’clock, and eight 
hours before he could possibly arrive Jess had 
a night-shirt warming for him at the fire. I 
was no longer anybody, except as a person who 
could give Jamie advice. Jess told me what I 
was to say. The only thing he and his mother 
quarrelled about was the underclothing she 
would swaddle him in, and Jess asked me to 
back her up in her entreaties. 

“There’s no a doubt,” she said, “but what 
it’s a hantle caulder here than in London, an’ 
it would be a terrible business if he was to tak 
the cauld.” 

Jamie was to sail from London to Dundee, 
and come on to Thrums from Tiiliedrum in the 
post-cart. The road at that time, however, 
avoided the brae, and at a certain point Jamie’s 
custom was to alight, and take the short cut 
home, along a farm road and up the com- 
monty. Here, too, Hookey Crewe, the post, 
deposited his passenger’s box, which Hendry 


166 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


wheeled home in a harrow. Long before the 
cart had lost sight of Tilliedrum, Jess was at 
her window. 

“Tell her Hookey’s often late on Monun* 
days,” Leeby whispered to me, “ for she’ll gang 
oot o’ her mind if she thinks there’s ony thing 
wrang.” 

Soon Jess was painfully excited, though she 
sat as still as salt. 

“It maun be yer time,” she said, looking at 
both Leeby and me, for in Thrums we went 
oot an’ met our friends. 

“ Hoots, ” retorted Leeby, trying to he hardy, 
“Hookey canna he oot o’ Tilliedrum yet.” 

“He maun hae startit lang syne.” 

“I wonder at ye, mother, puttin’ yersel’ in 
sic a state. Ye’ll he ill when he comes.” 

“Na, am no in nae state, Leeby, but there’ll 
no be nae accident, will there? ” 

“It’s most provokin’ ’at ye will think ’at 
every time Jamie steps into a machine there’ll 
be an accident. Am sure if ye would tak mair 
after my father, it would be a blessin’. Look 
hoo cool he is.” 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 


167 


“ Whaur is he, Leeby? ” 

“ Oh, I dinna ken. The henmost time I saw 
him he was layin’ doon the law ahoot some- 
thing to T’nowhead.” 

“It’s an awfu’ wy that he has o’ gaen oot 
without a word. I wouldna wonder ’at he’s 
no bein’ in time to meet Jamie, an’ that would 
be a pretty business.” 

“Od, ye’re sure he’ll be in braw time.” 

“But he hasna ta’en the harrow wi’ him, 
an’ hoo is Jamie’s luggage to he brocht up 
withoot a harrow? ” 

“Barrow! He took the barrow to the saw- 
mill an hour syne to pick it up at Rob Angus’ 
on the wy.” 

Several times Jess was sure she saw the cart 
in the distance, and implored us to be off. 

“I’ll tak no settle till ye’re awa,” she said, 
her face now flushed and her hands working 
nervously. 

“We’ve time to gang and come twa or three 
times yet,” remonstrated Leeby; hut Jess gave 
me so beseeching a look that I put on my hat. 
Then Hendry dandered in to change his coat 


i68 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


deliberately, and when the three of us set off, 
we left Jess with her eye on the door by which 
Jamie must enter. He was her only son now, 
and she had not seen him for a year. 

On the way down the commonty, Leeby had 
the honor of being twice addressed as Miss 
McQumpha, but her father was Hendry to all, 
which shows that we make our social position 
for ourselves. Hendry looked forward to 
Jamie’s annual appearance only a little less 
hungrily than Jess, but his pulse still beat reg- 
ularly. Leeby would have considered it almost 
wicked to talk of anything except Jamie now, 
but Hendry cried out comments on the tatties, 
yesterday’s roup, the fall in jute, to everybody 
he encountered. When he and a crony had 
their say and parted, it was their custom to 
continue the conversation in shouts until they 
were out of hearing. 

Only to Jess at her window was the cart late 
that afternoon. Jamie jumped from it in the 
long great-coat that had been new to Thrums 
the year before, and Hendry said calmly : 

“Ay, Jamie.” 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 


169 


Leeby and Jamie made signs that they rec- 
ognized each other as brother and sister, but I 
was the only one with whom he shook hands. 
He was smart in his movements and quite the 
gentleman, but the Thrums ways took hold of 
him again at once. He even inquired for his 
mother in a tone that was meant to deceive me 
into thinking he did not care how she was. 

Hendry would have had a talk out of him 
on the spot, but was reminded of the luggage. 
We took the heavy farm road, and soon we 
were at the saw-mill. I am naturally leis- 
urely, but we climbed the commonty at a 
stride. Jamie pretended to be calm, but in a 
dark place I saw him take Leeby ’s hand, and 
after that he said not a word. His eyes were 
fixed on the elbow of the brae, where he would 
come into sight of his mother’s window. 
Many, many a time, I know, that lad had 
prayed to God for still another sight of the 
window with his mother at it. So we came 
to the corner where the stile is that Sam’l 
Dickie jumped in the race for T’nowhead’s 
Bell, and before Jamie was the house of his 


170 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


childhood and his mother’s window, and the 
fond' anxious face of his mother herself. 
My eyes are dull, and I did not see her, but 
suddenly Jamie cried out, “My mother! ” and 
Leeby and I were left behind. When I reached 
the kitchen Jess was crying, and her son’s 
arms were round her neck. I went away to 
my attic. 

There was only one other memorable event 
of that day. Jamie had finished his tea, and 
we all sat round him, listening to his advent- 
ures and opinions. He told us how the coun- 
try should be governed, too, and perhaps put 
on airs a little. Hendry asked the questions, 
and Jamie answered them as pat as if he and 
his father were going through the Shorter 
Catechism. When Jamie told anything mar- 
vellous, as how many towels were used at the 
shop in a day, or that twopence was the charge 
for a single shave, his father screwed his mouth 
together as if preparing to whistle, and then 
instead made a curious clucking noise with his 
tongue, which was reserved for the expression 
of absolute amazement. As for Jess, who was 


THE SON FROM LONDON. 171 

given to making much of me, she ignored my 
remarks and laughed hilariously at jokes of 
Jamie’s which had been received in silence from 
me a few minutes before. 

Slowly it came to me that Leeby had some- 
thing on her mind, and that Jamie was talking 
to her with his eyes. I learned afterward 
that they were plotting how to get me out of 
the kitchen, but were too impatient to wait. 
Thus it was that the great event happened in 
my presence. Jamie rose and stood near Jess; 
I dare say he had planned the scene fre- 
quently. Then he produced from his pocket a 
purse, and coolly opened it. Silence fell upon 
us as we saw that purse. From it he took a 
neatly folded piece of paper, crumpled it into 
a ball, and flung it into Jess’ lap. 

I cannot say whether Jess knew what it was. 
Her hand shook, and for a moment she let the 
ball of paper lie there. 

“Open’t up,” cried Leeby, who was in the 
secret. 

“What is’t?” asked Hendry, drawing 


nearer. 


172 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“It’s juist a bit paper Jamie flung at me,” 
said Jess, and then she unfolded it. 

“It’s a five-pound note! ” cried Hendry. 

“Na, na; oh, keep us, no,” said Jess; hut she 
knew it was. 

For a time she could not speak. 

“I canna tak it, Jamie,” she faltered at last. 

But Jamie waved his hand, meaning that 
it was nothing ; and then, lest he should burst, 
hurried out into the garden, where he walked 
up and down whistling. May God bless the 
lad, thought I. I do not know the history of 
that five-pound note, but well aware I am that 
it grew slowly out of pence and silver, and 
that Jamie denied his passions many things 
for this great hour. His sacrifices watered his 
young heart and kept it fresh and tender. 
Let us no longer cheat our consciences by talk- 
ing of filthy lucre. Money may always be a 
beautiful thing. It is we who make it grimy. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A HOME FOR GENIUSES. 

From hints he had let drop at odd times I 
knew that Tammas Haggart had a scheme for 
geniuses, but not until the evening after Ja- 
mie’s arrival did I get it out of him. Hendry 
was with Jamie at the fishing, and it came 
about that Tammas and I had the pig-sty to 
ourselves. 

“Of course,” he said, when we had got a 
grip of the subject, “I dount pretend as my 
ideas is to be followed withoot deeviation, but 
ondootedly something should be done for gen- 
iuses, them bein’ aboot the only class as we do 
naethingfor. Yet they’re fowk to be prood o’ 
an’ we shouldna let them overdo the thing, 
nor run into debt ; na, na. There was Robbie 
Burns, noo, as real a genius as ever ” 

At the pig-sty, where we liked to have more 
173 


174 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


than one topic, we had frequently to tempt 
Tamm as away from Burns. 

“ Your scheme,” I interposed, “is for living 
geniuses, of course?” 

“Ay,” he said thoughtfully, “them ’at’s 
gone canna be brocht hack. Weel, my idea is 
’at a Home should he built for geniuses at the 
public expense, whaur they could all live the- 
gither, an’ be decently looked after. Na, no in 
London; that’s no my plan, hut I would hae’t 
within an hour’s distance o’ London, say five 
mile frae the market-place, an’ standin’ in a 
bit garden, whaur the geniuses could walk 
aboot arm-in-arm, composin’ their minds.” 

“You would have the grounds walled in, I 
suppose, so that the public could not intrude?” 

“Weel, there’s a difficulty there, because, 
ye’ll observe, as the public would support the 
institootion, they would hae a kind o’ richt to 
look in. How-some-ever, I daur say we could 
arrange to fling the grounds open to the public 
once a week on condition ’at they didna speak 
to the geniuses. I’m thinkin’ ’at if there was 
a small chairge for admission the Home could 


A HOME FOR GENIUSES. 


175 


be made self-supportin’. Losh! to think ’at if 
there had been sic an institootion in his time 
a man micht hae sat on the bit dyke and 
watched Robbie Burns danderin’ roond the ” 

“You would divide the Home into suites of 
rooms, so that every inmate would have his 
own apartments? ” 

“Not by no means; na, na. The mair I 
read aboot geniuses the mair clearly I see as 
their wy o’ living alane ower muckle is ane o’ 
the things as breaks doon their health, and 
makes them meeserable. I’ the Home they 
would hae a bedroom apiece, but the parlor an’ 
the other sittin’ -rooms would be for all, so as 
they could enjoy ane another’s company. 
The management? Oh, that’s aisy. The su- 
perintendent would be a medical man ap- 
pointed by Parliament, and he would hae men 
servants to do his biddin’.” 

“Not all men-servants, surely?” 

“Every one o’ them. Man, geniuses is no 
to be trusted wi’ womenfolk. No, even Rob- 
bie Bu ” 

“ So he did ; but would the inmates have to 


176 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


put themselves entirely in the superintendent’s 
hands? ” 

“Nae doubt; an’ they would see it was the 
wisest thing they could do. He would be care- 
ful o’ their health, an’ send them early to bed 
as weel as hae them up at eight sharp. Gen- 
iuses’ healths is always breakin’ doon because 
of late hours, as in the case o’ the lad wha used 
often to begin his immortal writin’s at twal 
o’clock at nicht, a thing ’at would ruin ony 
constitootion. But the superintendent would 
see as they had a tasty supper at nine o’clock 
— something as agreed wi’ them. Then for 
half an hour they would quiet their brains 
readin’ oot aloud, time about, frae sic a book 
as the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” an’ the gas would 
be turned aff at ten precisely.” 

“When would you have them up in the 
morning? ” 

“At sax in summer an’ seven in winter. 
The superintendent would see as they were all 
properly bathed every mornin’, cleanliness bein’ 
most important for the preservation o’ health.” 

“This sounds well; but suppose a genius 


A HOME FOR GENIUSES. 


177 


broke the rules — lay in bed, for instance, 
reading by the light of a candle after hours, or 
refused to take his bath in the morning? ” 

“The superintendent would hae to punish 
him. The genius would be sent back to his 
bed, maybe. An’ if he lay lang i’ the morn- 
in’ he would hae to gang withoot his break- 
fast.” 

“That w r ould be all very well where the in- 
mate only broke the regulations once in a way ; 
but suppose he were to refuse to take his bath 
day after day (and, you know, geniuses are 
said to be eccentric in that particular), what 
would be done? You could not starve him; 
geniuses are too scarce.” 

“ Na, 11a ; in a case like that he would hae 
to be reported to the public. The thing would 
hae to come afore the Hoose of Commons. Ay, 
the superintendent would get a member o’ the 
Opposeetion to ask a queistion such as ‘Can the 
honorable gentleman, the Secretary of State 
for Home Affairs, inform the Hoose whether 
it is a fac that Mr. Sic-a-one, the well-known 

genius, at present resident in the Home for 
12 


178 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Geniuses, has, contrairy to regulations, per- 
seestently and obstinately refused to change his 
linen ; and, if so, whether the Government pro- 
poses to take ony steps in the matter?’ The 
newspapers would report the discussion next 
mornin’, an’ so it would be made public with- 
oot onnecessary ootlay.” 

“In a general way, however, you would 
give the geniuses perfect freedom? They 
could work when they liked, and come and go 
when they liked? ” 

“Not so. The superintendent would fix the 
hours o’ wark, an’ they would all write, or 
whatever it was, thegither in one large room. 
Man, man, it would mak a grand draw for a 
painter-chield, that room, wi’ all the geniuses 
working awa’ thegither.” 

“ But when the labors of the day were over 
the genius would be at liberty to make calls by 
himself, or, to run up, say, to London for an 
hour or two? ” 

“Hoots no, that would spoil everything. It 
is the drink, ye see, as does for a terrible lot 
o’ geniuses. Even Rob ” 


A HOME FOR GENIUSES. 


179 


“Alas! yes. But would you have them all 
teetotalers? ” 

“What do ye tak me for? Na, na; the 
superintendent would allow them one glass o’ 
toddy every nicht, an’ mix it himsel’ ; hut he 
would never let the keys o’ the press, whaur he 
kept the drink, oot o’ his hands. They would 
never he allowed oot o’ the gairden either, with- 
oot a man to look after them ; an’ I wouldna 
burthen them wi’ ower muckle pocket money. 
Saxpence in the week would be suffeecient.” 

“How about their clothes? ” 

“ They would get twa suits a year, wi’ the 
letter G sewed on the shoulders, so as if they 
were lost they could be recognized and brocht 
back.” 

“Certainly it is a scheme deserving consid- 
eration, and I have no doubt our geniuses 
would jump at it; but you must remember 
that some of them would have wives.” 

“Ay, an’ some o’ them would hae husbands. 
I’ve been thinkin’ that oot, an’ I daur say 
the best plan would be to partition aff a pairt 
o’ the Home for female geniuses.” 


180 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


“Would Parliament elect the members?” 

“ I wouldna trust them. The election would 
hae to he by competitive examination. Na, I 
canna say wha would draw up the queistions. 
The scheme’s juist growin’ i’ my mind, but 
the mair I think o’t the better I like it.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


LEEBY AND JAMIE. 

By the bank of the Quharity on a summer 
day I have seen a barefooted girl gaze at the 
running water until tears filled her eyes. 
That was the birth of romance. Whether this 
love be but a beautiful dream I cannot say, but 
this we see, that it comes to all, and colors the 
whole future life with gold. Leeby must 
have dreamed it, but I did not know her 
then. I have heard of a man who would 
have taken her far away into a county where 
the corn is yellow when it is still green with 
us, but she would not leave her mother, nor 
was it him she saw in her dream. From 
her earliest days, when she was still a child 
staggering round the garden with Jamie in 
her arms, her duty lay before her, straight as 

the burying- ground road. Jess had need of 
181 


182 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


her in the little home at the top of the brae, 
where God, looking down upon her as she 
scrubbed and gossiped and sat up all night 
with her ailing mother, and never missed the 
prayer-meeting, and adored the minister, did 
not perhaps think her the least of his hand- 
maids. Her years were less than thirty when 
he took her away, but she had few days that 
were altogether dark. Those who bring sun- 
shine to the lives of others cannot keep it from 
themselves. 

The love Leeby bore for Jamie was such 
that in their younger days it shamed him. 
Other laddies knew of it, and flung it at him 
until he dared Leeby to let on in public that 
he and she were related. 

“ Hoo is your lass? ” they used to cry to him, 
inventing a new game. 

“ I saw Leeby lookin’ for ye,” they would 
say; “ she’s wearyin’ for ye to gang an’ play 
wi’ her.” 

Then if they were not much bigger hoys 
than himself, Jamie got them against the 
dyke and hit them hard until they publicly 


LEEBY AND JAMIE. 


183 


owned to knowing that she was his sister, and 
that he was not fond of her. 

“ It distressed him mair than ye could be- 
lieve, though,” Jess has told me; “an’ when 
he came hame he would greet an’ say ’at 
Leeby disgraced him.” 

Leeby, of course, suffered for her too obvious 
affection. 

“I wonder ’at ye dinna try to control yer- 
sel’,” Jamie would say to her, as he grew big- 
ger. 

“ ’Am sure,” said Leeby, “I never gie ye a 
look if there’s onybody there.” 

“ A look! You’re ay lookin’ at me sae fond- 
like ’at I dinna ken what wy to turn.” 

“Weel, I canna help it,” said Leeby, prob- 
ably beginning to whimper. 

If Jamie was in a very bad temper he left 
her, after this, to her own reflections ; but he 
was naturally soft-hearted. 

“ ’Am no tellin’ ye no to care for me,” he told 
her, “ but juist to keep it mair to yersel’. Nae- 
body would ken frae me ’at ’am fond o’ ye.” 

“Mebbe jer no? ” said Leeby. 


184 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“ Ay, am I, but I can keep it secret. When 
we’re in the hoose ’am juist richt fond o’ ye.” 

“Do ye love me, Jamie? ” 

Jamie waggled his head in irritation. 

“ Love, ” he said, “is an awfu’ -like word to 
use when fowk’s weel. Ye shouldna spier sic 
annoyin’ questions.” 

“ But if ye juist say ye love me I’ll never let 
on again afore fowk ’at yer ony thing to me 
ava.” 

“Ay, ye often say that.” 

“Do ye no believe my word? ” 

“I believe fine ye mean what ye say, but 
ye forget yersel’ when the time comes.” 

“Juist try me this time.” 

“Weel, then, I do.” 

“Do what?” asked the greedy Leeby. 

“What ye said.” 

“I said love.” 

“Weel,” said Jamie, “I do’t.” 

“What do ye do? Say the word.” 

“Na,” said Jamie, “I winna say the word. ' 
It’s no a word to say, but I do’t.” 

That was all she could get out of him, unless 


LEEBY AND JAMIE. 


185 


he was stricken with remorse, when he even 
went the length of saying the word. 

“Leeby kent perfectly weel,” Jess has said, 
“ ’at it was a trial to Jamie to tak her ony 
gait, an’ I often used to say to her ’at I wonder 
at her want o’ pride in priggin’ wi’ him. Ay, 
but if she could juist get a promise wrung oot 
o’ him, she didna care hoo muckle she had to 
prig. Syne they quarrelled, an’ ane or baith 
o’ them grat (cried) afore they made it up. I 
mind when Jamie went to the fishin’ Leeby 
was aye terrible keen to get wi’ him, but ye 
see he couldna be seen gaen through the toon 
wi’ her. ‘If ye let me gang, ’ she said to 
him, ‘I’ll no seek to go through the toon wi’ 
ye. Na, I’ll gang roond by the roods an’ you 
can tak the buryin’- ground road, so as we can 
meet on the hill.’ Yes, Leeby was willin’ to 
agree wi’ a’ that, juist to get gaen wi’ him. 
I’ve seen lassies makkin’ themsel’s sma’ for lads 
often enough, but I never saw ane ’at prigged 
so muckle wi’ her ain brother. Na, it’s other 
lassies’ brothers they like as a rule.” 

“But though Jamie was terrible reserved 


186 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


aboot it,” said Leeby, “he was as fond o’ me 
as ever I was o’ him. Ye mind the time I 
had the measles, mother? ” 

“’Am no likely to forget it, Leeby,” said 
Jess, “an’ you blind wi’ them for three days. 
Ay, ay, Jamie was richt ta’en up aboot ye. 
I mind he broke open his pirly (money-box), 
an’ bocht a ha’penny worth o’ something to 
ye every day.” 

“An’ ye hinna forgotten the stick? ” 

“ ’Deed no, I hinna. Ye see, ” Jess explained 
to me, “Leeby was lyin’ ben the hoose, an’ 
Jamie wasna allowed to gang near her for fear 
o’ infection. Weel, he got a lang stick — it 
was a pea-stick — an’ put it aneath the door 
an’ waggled it. Ay, he did that a curran 
times every day, juist to let her see he was 
thinkin’ o’ her.” 

“Mair than that,” said Leeby, “he cried oot 
’at he loved me.” 

“Ay, but juist aince,” Jess said, “I dinna 
mind o’t but aince. It was the time the doctor 
came late, an’ Jamie, being waukened by him, 
thocht ye was deein’. I mind as if it was yes- 


LEEBY AND JAMIE. 


187 


terday hoo he cam runnin’ to the door an’ 
cried oot, £ I do love ye, Leeby; I love ye richt. ’ 
The doctor got a start when he heard the voice, 
but he laughed loud when he un’erstood.” 

“He had nae business, though,” said Leeby, 
“to tell onybody.” 

“He was a rale clever man, the doctor,” 
Jess explained to me, “ay, he kent me as weel 
as though he’d gaen through me wi’ a lichted 
candle. It got oot through him, an’ the young 
billies took to say in’ to Jamie, £ Ye do love her, 
Jamie; ay, ye love her richt.’ The only reg’- 
lar fecht I ever kent Jamie hae was wi’ a lad 
’at cried that to him. It was Bowlegs Chirsty’s 
laddie. Ay, hut when she got better Jamie 
blamed Leeby.” 

“He no only blamed me,” said Leeby, “but 
he wanted me to pay him back a’ the bawbees 
he had spent on me.” 

“Ay, an’ I sepad he got them too,” said 
Jess. 

In time Jamie became a barber in Tillie- 
drum, trudging many heavy miles there and 
back twice a day that he might sleep at home, 


188 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


trudging bravely I was to say, but it was what 
he was born to, and there was hardly an alter- 
native. This was the time I saw most of him, 
and he and Leeby were often in my thoughts. 
There is as terrible a bubble in the little kettle 
as on the caldron of the world, and some of 
the scenes between Jamie and Leeby were 
great tragedies, comedies, what you will, un- 
til the kettle was taken off the fire. Hers was 
the more placid temper; indeed, only in one 
way could Jamie suddenly rouse her to fury. 
That was when he hinted that she had a large 
number of frocks. Leeby knew that there 
could never be more than a Sabbath frock and 
an every-day gown for her, both of her mother’s 
making, but Jamie’s insinuations were more 
than she could bear. Then I have seen her 
seize and shake him. I know from Jess that 
Leeby cried herself hoarse the day Joey was 
buried, because her little black frock was not 
ready for wear. 

Until he went to Tilliedrum Jamie had been 
more a stay-at-home boy than most. The 
warmth of Jess’ love had something to do 


LEEBY AND JAMIE. 


189 


with keeping his heart aglow, but more, I think, 
he owed to Leeby. Tilliedrum was his intro- 
duction to the world, and for a little it took 
his head. I was in the house the Sabbath day 
that he refused to go to church. 

He went out in the forenoon to meet the 
Tilliedrum lads, who were to take him off 
for a holiday in a cart. Hendry was more 
wrathful than I remember ever to have seen 
him, though I have heard how he did with the 
lodger who broke the Lord’s Day. This lodg- 
er was a tourist who thought, in folly surely 
rather than in hardness of heart, to test the 
religious convictions of an Auld Licht by in- 
sisting on paying his bill on a Sabbath morning. 
He offered the money to Jess, with the warn- 
ing that if she did not take it now she might 
never see it. Jess was so kind and good to her 
lodgers that he could not have known her long 
who troubled her with this poor trick. She 
was sorely in need at the time, and entreated 
the thoughtless man to have some pity on her. 

“Now or never,” he said, holding out the 
money. 


190 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


“Put it on the dresser,” said Jess at last, 
“an’ I’ll get it the morn.” 

The few shillings were laid on the dresser, 
where they remained unfingered until Hendry , 
with Leeby and Jamie, came in from church. 

“What siller’s that?” asked Hendry, and 
then Jess confessed what she had done. 

“I wonder at ye, woman,” said Hendry 
sternly ; and lifting the money he climbed up 
to the attic with it. 

He pushed open the door, and confronted the 
lodger. 

“Take back yer siller,” he said, laying it on 
the table, “an’ leave my hoose. Man, you’re 
a pitiable crittur to tak the chance, when I was 
oot, o’ playin’ upon the poverty o’ an onweel 
woman.” 

It was with such unwonted severity as this 
that Hendry called upon Jamie to follow him 
to church ; but the boy went off, and did not 
return till dusk, defiant and miserable. Jess 
had been so terrified that she forgave him every- 
thing for sight of his face, and Hendry prayed 
for him at family worship with too much unc- 


LEEBY AND JAMIE. 


191 


tion. But Leeby cried as if her tender heart 
would break. For a long time Jamie refused to 
look at her, but at last he broke down. 

“If ye go on like that,” he said, “I’ll gang 
awa oot an’ droon mysel’, or be a sojer.” 

This was no uncommon threat of his, and 
sometimes, when he went off, banging the door 
violently, she ran after him and brought him 
back. This time she only wept the more, and 
so both went to bed in misery. It was after 
midnight that Jamie rose and crept to Leeby ’s 
bedside. Leeby was shaking the bed in her 
agony. Jess heard what they said. 

“Leeby,” said Jamie, “dinna greet, an’ I’ll 
never do’t again.” 

He put his arms round her, and she kissed 
him passionately. 

“0 Jamie,” she said, “hae ye prayed to 
God to forgie ye?” 

Jamie did not speak. 

“If ye was to die this nicht,” cried Leeby, 
“an’ you no made it up wi’ God, ye wouldna 
gang to heaven. Jamie, I canna sleep till 
ye’ve made it up wi’ God.” 


192 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


But Jamie still hung back. Leeby slipped 
from her bed, and went down on her knees. 

“0 God, 0 dear God,” she cried, “mak 
Jamie to pray to you! ” 

Then Jamie went down on his knees too, 
and they made it up with God together. 

This is a little thing for me to remember all 
these years, and yet how fresh and sweet it 
keeps Leeby in my memory. 

Away up in the glen, my lonely school-house 
lying deep, as one might say, in a sea of snow, 
I had many hours in the years long by for 
thinking of my friends in Thrums and map- 
ping out the future of Leeby and Jamie. I 
saw Hendry and Jess taken to the churchyard, 
and Leeby left alone in the house. I saw 
Jamie fulfil his promise to his mother, and take 
Leeby, that stainless young woman, far away 
to London, where they had a home together. 
Ah, but these were only the idle dreams of a 
dominie. The Lord willed it otherwise. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A TALE OF A GLOVE. 

So long as Jamie was not the lad, Jess twin- 
kled gleefully over tales of sweethearting. 
There was little Kitty Lamby who used to skip 
in of an evening, and, squatting on a stool near 
the window, unwind the roll of her enormities. 
A wheedling thing she was, with an ambition 
to drive men crazy, but my presence killed the 
gossip on her tongue, though I liked to look at 
her. When I entered, the wag-at-the-wa’ 
clock had again possession of the kitchen. I 
never heard more than the end of a sentence : 

“ An’ did he really say he would fling himsel’ 
into the dam, Kitty? ” 

Or — “True as death, Jess, he kissed me.” 

Then I wandered away from the kitchen, 

where I was not wanted, and marvelled to 
13 193 


194 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


know that Jess of the tender heart laughed 
most merrily when he really did say that he 
was going straight to the dam. As no body 
was found in the dam in those days, whoever 
he was he must have thought better of it. 

But let Kitty, or any other maid, cast a glint- 
ing eye on Jamie, then Jess no longer smiled. 
If he returned the glance she sat silent in her 
chair till Leeby laughed away her fears. 

“ Jamie’s no the kind, mother,” Leeby would 
say. “Na, he’s quiet, but he sees through 
them. They dinna draw his leg ” (get over 
him). 

“ Ye never can tell, Leeby. The laddies ’at’s 
maist ill to get sometimes gangs up in a flame 
a’ at aince, like a hit o’ paper.” 

“Ay, weel, at ony rate Jamie’s no on fire 
yet.” 

Though clever beyond her neighbors, Jess 
lost all her sharpness if they spoke of a lassie 
for Jamie. 

“I warrant,” Tibbie Birse said one day in 
my hearing, “ ’at there’s some leddy in London 
he’s thinkin’ o’. Ay, he’s been a guid laddie 


A TALE OF A GLOVE . 


195 


to ye, but i’ the coorse o’ nature he’ll be set- 
tlin’ dune soon.” 

Jess did not answer, but she was a picture 
of woe. 

“ Ye’re lettin’ what Tibbie Birse said lie on 
yer mind,” Leeby remarked, when Tibbie was 
gone. “ What can it maiter what she thinks?” 

“I canna help it, Leeby,” said Jess. “Na, 
an’ I canna bear to think o’ Jamie bein’ mairit. 
It would lay me low to loss my laddie. No 
yet, no yet.” 

“But, mother,” said Leeby, quoting from 
the minister at weddings, “ye wouldna be 
lossin’ a son, but juist gainin’ a dochter.” 

“Dinna haver, Leeby,” answered Jess, “I 
want nane o’ thae dochters; na, na.” 

This talk took place while we were still 
awaiting Jamie’s coming. He had only been 
with us one day when Jess made a terrible 
discovery. She was looking so mournful 
when I saw her, that I asked Leeby what was 
wrong. 

“She’s brocht it on hersel’,” said Leeby. 
“Ye see, she was up sune i’ the mornin’ to be- 


196 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


gin to the darnin’ o’ Jamie’s stockin’ s an’ to 
warm his sark at the fire afore he put it on. 
He woke up, an’ cried to her ’at he wasna ac- 
customed to hae’n his things warmed for him. 
Ay, he cried it oot fell thrawn, so she took it 
into her head ’at there was something in his 
pouch he didna want her to see. She was even 
onaisy last nicht.” 

I asked what had aroused Jess’ suspicions 
last night. 

“ Ou, ye would notice ’at she sat devourin’ 
him wi’ her een, she was so lifted up at hae’n 
’im again. Weel, she says noo ’at she saw 
’im twa or three times put his hand in his pouch 
as if he was findin’ to mak sure ’at something 
was safe. So when he fell asleep again this 
mornin’ she got haud o’ his jacket to see if 
there was ony thing in’t. I advised her no to 
do’t, but she couldna help hersel’. She put in 
her hand, an’ pu’d it oot. That’s what’s mak- 
kin’ her look sae ill.” 

“But what was it she found? ” 

“Did I no tell ye? I’m ga’en dottle, I 
think. It was a glove, $ wornan’s glove, in a 


A TALE OF A GLOVE. 


197 


bit paper. Ay, though she’s sittin’ still she’s 
near frantic.” 

I said I supposed Jess had put the glove 
back in Jamie’s pocket. 

“Ha,” said Leeby, “’deed no. She wanted 
to fli3fe it on the back o’ the fire, but I 
wouldna let her. That’s it she has aneath 
her apron.” 

Later in the day I remarked to Leeby that 
Jamie was very dull. 

“He’s missed it,” she explained. 

“ Has any one mentioned it to him? ” I asked, 
“or has he inquired about it? ” 

“Ha,” said Leeby, “there hasna been a syl- 
lup (syllable) aboot it. My mother’s fleid to 
mention’t, an’ he doesna like to speak aboot it 
either.” 

“Perhaps he thinks he has lost it? ” 

“Hae fear o’ him,” Leeby said. “Ha, he 
kens fine wha’ has’t.” 

I never knew how Jamie came by the glove, 
nor whether it had originally belonged to her 
who made him forget the window at the top 
of the brae. At the time I looked on as at 


198 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


play-acting, rejoicing in the happy ending. 
Alas ! in the real life how are we to know when 
we have reached an end? 

But this glove, I say, may not have been 
that woman’s, and if it was, she had not then 
bedevilled him. He was too sheepish to de- 
mand it back from his mother, and already he 
cared for it too much to laugh at Jess’ theft 
with Leeby. So it was that a curious game 
at chess was played with the glove, the players 
a silent pair. 

Jamie cared little to read books, but on the 
day following Jess’ discovery, I found him on 
his knees in the attic, looking through mine. 
A little box, without a lid, held them all, but 
they seemed a great library to him. 

“ There’s readin’ for a lifetime in them,” 
he said. “I was juist takkin’ a look through 
them.” 

His face was guilty, however, as if his 
hand had been caught in a money-bag, and 
I wondered what had enticed the lad to my 
books. I was still standing pondering when 
Leeby ran up the stair; she was so active that 


A TALE OF A GLOVE. 


199 


she generally ran, and she grudged the time 
lost in recovering her breath. 

“I’ll put yer hooks richt,” she said, making 
her word good as she spoke. “Ikent Jamie 
had been ransackin’ up here, though he came 
up rale canny. Ay, ye would notice he was 
in his stockin’ soles. 

I had not noticed this, but I remembered 
now his slipping from the room very softly. 
If he wanted a book, I told Leeby, he could 
have got it without any display of cunning. 

“It’s no a book he’s lookin’ for,” she said, 
“na, it’s his glove.” 

The time of day was early for Leeby to gos 
sip, but I detained her for a moment. 

“My mother’s hodded (hid) it,” she ex- 
plained, “an’ he winna speir nae queistions. 
But he’s lookin’ for’t. He was ben in the 
room searchin’ the drawers when I was up i’ 
the toon in the forenoon. Ye see, he pretends 
no to be carin’ afore me, an’ though my 
mother’s sittin’ sae quiet-like at the window 
she’s hearkenin’ a’ the time. Ay, an’ he 
thocht I had hod it up here.” 


200 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


But where, I asked, was the glove hid. 

“I ken nae mair than yersel’,” said Leeby. 
“My mother’s gien to hoddin’ things. She 
has a place aneath the bed whaur she keeps 
the siller, an’ she’s no speakin’ aboot the glove 
to me noo, because she thinks Jamie an’ me’s 
in comp (company). I speired at her whaur 
she had hod it, but she juist said, ‘What would 
I be doin’ hoddin’t?’ She’ll never admit to 
me ’at she hods the siller either.” 

Next day Leeby came to me with the latest 
news. 

“He’s found it,” she said, “ay^ lie’s got the 
glove again. Ye see, what put him on the 
wrang scent was a notion ’at I had put it 
some gait. He kent ’at if she’d hod it, the 
kitchen maun be the place, but he thocht she’d 
gien it to me to hod. He came upon’t by 
accident. It was aneath the paddin’ o’ her 
chair.” 

Here, I thought, was the end of the glove 
incident, but I was mistaken. There were no 
presses or drawers with locks in the house, and 
Jess got hold of the glove again. I suppose 


A TALE OF A GLOVE. 


201 


she had reasoned out no line of action. She 
merely hated the thought that Jamie should 
have a woman’s glove in his possession. 

“She heats a’ wi’ ’cuteness,” Leeby said to 
me. “Jamie didna put the glove back in his 
pouch. Na, he kens her ower weel by this 
time. She was up, though, lang afore he was 
wauken, an’ she gaed almost strecht to the place 
whaur he had hod it. I believe she lay wau- 
kin a’ nicht thinkin’ oot whaur it would be. 
Ay, it was aneath the mattress. I saw her 
hodden ’t i’ the back o’ the drawer, but I didna 
let on.” 

I quite believed Leeby when she told me 
afterward that she had watched Jamie feel- 
ing beneath the mattress. 

“He had a face,” she said, “I assure ye, 
he had a face, when he discovered the glove 
was gone again.” 

“ He maun be terrible ta’en up aboot it,” Jess 
said to Leeby, “or he wouldna keep it aneath 
the mattress.” 

“Od,” said Leeby, “it was yersel’ ’at drove 
him to’t.” 




202 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


Again Jamie recovered his property, and 
again Jess got hold of it. This time he looked 
in vain. I learned the fate of the glove from 
Leeby. 

“ Ye mind ’at she keepit him hame frae the 
kirk on Sabbath, because he had a cauld?” 
Leeby said. “Ay, me or my father would 
hae a gey ill cauld afore she would let’s bide 
at hame frae the kirk; but Jamie’s different. 
Weel, mair thanaince she’s been near speakin’ 
to ’im aboot the glove, but she grew fleid aye. 
She was sae terrified there was something in’t. 

“On Sabbath, though, she had him to her- 
sel’, an’ he wasna so bright as usual. She sat 
wi’ the Bible on her lap, pretendin’ to read, 
hut a’ the time she was takkin’ keeks (glances) 
at him. I dinna ken ’at he was broodin’ ower 
the glove, but she thocht he was, an’ juist afore 
the kirk came oot she couldna stand it nae lan- 
ger. She put her hand in her pouch, an’ pu’d 
oot the glove, wi’ the paper round it, juist as 
it had been when she came upon’t. 

“ ‘That’s yours, Jamie,’ she said; ‘it was ill- 
dune o’ me to tak it, but I couldna help it. ’ 


A TALE OF A GLOVE. 


203 


“ Jamie put oot his hand, an’ syne he drew 
it back. ‘It’s no a thing o’ nae consequence, 
mother, ’ he said. 

“‘Wha is she, Jamie?’ my mother said. 

“He turned awa his heid — so she telt me. 
‘It’s a lassie in London,’ he said, ‘I dinna ken 
her muckle. ’ 

“‘Ye maun ken her weel,’ my mother per- 
sisted, ‘to be carry in’ aboot her glove; I’m 
dootin’ yer gey fond o’ her, Jamie?’ 

“ ‘Na, ’ said Jamie, ‘ ’am no. There’s no nae- 
body I care for like yersel’, mother.’ 

‘“Ye wouldna carry aboot ony thing o’ mine, 
Jamie,’ my mother said; but he says, ‘Oh, 
mother, I carry aboot yer face wi’ me aye; an’ 
sometimes at nicht I kind o’ greet to think o’ 
ye.’ 

“Ay, after that I’ve nae doot he was sittin’ 
wi’ his arms aboot her. She didna tell me 
that, but weel he kens it’s what she likes, an’ 
she maks nae pretence o’ it’s no bein’. But 
for a’ he said an’ did, she noticed him put the 
glove back in his inside pouch. 

“ ‘It’s wrang o’ me, Jamie.’ she said, ‘but I 


304 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


canna bear to think o’ ye carry in’ that aboot 
sae carefu’. No, I canna help it.’ 

“Weel, Jamie, the crittur, took it oot o’ his 
pouch, an’ kind o’ hesitated. Syne he lays ’t 
on the back o’ the fire, an’ they sat thegither 
glowerin’ at it. 

“ ‘Noo, mother,’ he says, ‘ you’re satisfied, 
are ye no?’ 

“ Ay,” Leeby ended her story, “she said she 
was satisfied. But she saw ’at he laid it on 
the fire fell fond-like.’ 5 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE LAST NIGHT. 

<c J uist another sax nichts, Jamie,” Jess 
would say, sadly. “ Juist fower nichts noo, an’ 
you’ll be awa.” Even as she spoke seemed to 
come the last night. 

The last night! Reserve slipped unheeded 
to the floor. Hendry wandered ben and but 
the house, and Jamie sat at the window hold- 
ing his mother’s hand. You must walk softly 
now if you would cross that humble threshold. 
I stop at the door. Then, as now, I was a 
lonely man, and when the last night came the 
attic was the place for me. 

This family affection, how good and beauti- 
ful it is ! Men and maids love, and after many 
years they may rise to this. It is the grand 
proof of the goodness in human nature, for it 
means that the more we see of each other the 

more we find that is lovable. If you would 
205 


206 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


cease to dislike a man, try to get nearer his 
heart. 

Leeby had no longer any excuse for bust- 
ling about. Everything was ready — too soon. 
Hendry had been to the fish-cadger in the 
square to get a her vie for Jamie’s supper, and 
Jamie had eaten it, trying to look as if it made 
him happier. His little box was packed and 
strapped, and stood terribly conspicuous against 
the dresser. Jess had packed it herself. 

“ Ye mauna trachle (trouble) yersel’, moth- 
er,” Jamie said, when she had the empty box 
pulled toward her. 

Leeby was wiser. 

“Let her do’t,” she whispered, “it’ll keep 
her frae broodin’.” 

Jess tied ends of yarn round the stockings 
to keep them in a little bundle by themselves. 
So she did with all the other articles. 

“No ’at it’s ony great affair,” she said, for 
on the last night they were all thirsting to do 
something for Jamie that would be a great 
affair to him. 

“Ah, ye would wonder, mother,” Jamie 


THE LAST NIGHT. 


207 


said, “when I open my box an’ find a’thing 
tied up wi’ strings sae careful, it a’ comes back 
to me wi’ a rush wha did it, an’ ’am as fond o’ 
thae strings as though they were a grand pres- 
ent. There’s the pocky (bag) ye gae me to 
keep sewin’ things in. I get the wifie I lodge 
wi’ to sew to me, hut often when I come upon 
the pocky I sit an’ look at it.” 

Two chairs were hacked to the fire, with un- 
derclothing hanging upside down on them. 
From the string over the fireplace dangled two 
pairs of much-darned stockings. 

“Ye’ll put on baith thae pair o’ stockin’s, 
Jamie,” said Jess, “ juist to please me? ” 

When he arrived he had rebelled against the 
extra clothing. 

“Ay, will I, mother? ” he said now. 

Jess put her hand fondly through his ugly 
hair. How handsome she thought him ! 

“Ye have a fine brow, Jamie,” she said. “I 
mind the day ye was born sayin’ to mysel’ ’at 
ye had a fine brow.” 

“ But ye thocht he was to be a lassie, mother,” 
said Leeby. 


208 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 

“Na, Leeby, I didna. I kept sayin’ I thocht 
he would be a lassie because I was fleid he 
would be; but a’ the time I had a presenti- 
ment he would be a laddie. It was wi’ Joey 
deein’ sae sudden, an’ I took on sae terrible 
aboot ’im ’at I thocht all alang the Lord would 
gie me another laddie.” 

“A y, I wanted ’im to be a laddie mysel’,” 
said Hendry, “so as he could tak Joey’s 
place.” 

Jess’ head jerked back involuntarily, and 
Jamie may have felt her hand shake, for he 
said in a voice out of Hendry’s hearing: 

“I never took Joey’s place wi’ ye, mother.” 

Jess pressed his hand tightly in her two 
worn palms, but she did not speak. 

“Jamie was richt like Joey when he was a 
bairn,” Hendry said. 

Again Jess’ head moved, but still she was 
silent. 

“They were sae like,” continued Hendry, 
“ ’at often I called Jamie by Joey’s name.” 

Jess looked at her husband, and her mouth 
opened and shut. 


THE LAST NIGHT. 


209 


“I canna mind ’at you ever did that?” Hen- 
dry said. 

She shook her head. 

“Na,” said Hendry, “you never mixed them 
up. I dinna think ye ever missed Joey sae 
sair as I did.” 

Leeby went ben, and stood in the room in 
the dark ; Jamie knew why. 

“I’ll just gang ben an’ speak to Leeby for 
a meenute,” he said to his mother; “I’ll no be 
lang.” 

“Ay, do that, Jamie,” said Jess. “What 
Leeby ’s been to me nae tongue can tell. Ye 
canna bear to hear me speak, I ken, o’ the 
time when Hendry an’ me ’ll be awa, but, 
Jamie, when that time comes ye’ll no forget 
Leeby? ” 

“I winna, mother, I winna,” said Jamie. 
“There’ll never be a roof ower me ’at’s no 
hers too.” 

He went ben and shut the door. I do not 
know what he and Leeby said. Many a time 
since their earliest youth had these two been 

closeted together, often to make up their little 
14 


210 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


quarrels in each other’s arms. They remained 
a long time in the room, the shabby room of 
which Jess and Leeby were so proud , and what- 
ever might be their fears about their mother 
they were not anxious for themselves. Leeby 
was feeling lusty and well, and she could not 
know that Jamie required to be reminded of 
his duty to the folk at home. Jamie would 
have laughed at the notion. Yet that woman 
in London must have been waiting for him 
even then. Leeby, who was about to die, and 
Jamie, who was to forget his mother, came 
back to the kitchen with a happy light on their 
faces. I have with me still the look of love 
they gave each other before Jamie crossed over 
to Jess. 

“ Ye’ll gang anower, noo, mother,” Leeby 
said, meaning that it was Jess’ bed-time. 

“No yet, Leeby,” Jess answered; “I’ll sit up 
till the readin’s ower.” 

“I think ye should gang, mother,” Jamie 
said, “an’ I’ll come an’ sit aside ye after ye’re 
i’ yer bed. ” 

“Ay, Jamie, I’ll no hae ye to sit aside me 


THE LAST NIGHT. 


211 


the morn’s nicht, an’ hap (cover) me wi’ the 
claes.” 

“But ye’ll gang suner to yer bed, mother.” 

“ I may gang, but I winna sleep. I’ll aye 
be thinkin’ o’ ye tossin’ on the sea. I pray for 
ye a lang time ilka nicht, Jamie.” 

“ Ay, I ken.” 

“ An’ I pictur’ ye ilka hour o’ the day. Ye 
never gang hame through thae terrible streets 
at nicht but I’m thinkin’ o’ ye.” 

“I would try no to be sae sad, mother,” said 
Leeby. “ We’ve ha’en a richt fine time, have 
we no? ” 

“It’s been an awfu’ happy time,” said Jess. 
“We’ve ha’en a pleasantness in oor lives ’at 
comes to few. I ken naebody ’at’s ha’en sae 
muckle happiness one wy or another.” 

“It’s because ye’re sae guid, mother,” said 
Jamie. 

“ Na, Jamie, ’am no guid ava. It’s because 
my fowk’s been sae guid, you an’ Hendry an’ 
Leeby an’ Joey when he was livin’. I’ve got 
a lot mair than my deserts.” 

“ We’ll juist look to meetin’ next year again. 


212 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


mother. To think o’ that keeps me up a’ the 
winter.” 

i 

“ Ay, if it’s the Lord’s will, Jamie, hut ’am 
gey dune noo, an’ Hendry’s fell worn too.” 

Jamie, the boy that he was, said, “Dinna 
speak like that, mother,” and Jess again put 
her hand on his head. 

“Fine I ken, Jamie,” she said, “’at all my 
days on this earth, he they short or lang, I’ve 
you for a staff to lean on.” 

Ah, many years have gone since then, but 
if Jamie be living now he has still those words 
to swallow. 

By and by Leeby went ben for the Bible, and 
put it into Hendry’s hands. He slowly turned 
over the leaves to his favorite chapter, the 
fourteenth of John’s Gospel. Always, on event- 
ful occasions, did Hendry turn to the four- 
teenth of John. 

“ Let not your heart be troubled ; ye believe 
in God, believe also in me. 

“In my Father’s house are many mansions; 
if it were not so I would have told you. I go 
to prepare a place for you.” 


THE LAST NIGHT. 


213 


As Hendry raised his voice to read there 
was a great stillness in the kitchen. I do not 
know that I have been able to show in the 
most imperfect way what kind of man Hen- 
dry was. He was dense in many things, and 
the cleverness that was Jess’ had been denied 
to him. He had less book-learning than most 
of those with whom he passed his days, and he 
had little skill in talk. I have not known a 
man more easily taken in by persons whose 
speech had two faces. But a more simple, 
modest, upright man there never was in 
Thrums, and I shall always revere his memory. 

“ And if I go and prepare a place for you, I 
will come again, and receive you unto myself ; 
that where I am, there ye may be also.” 

The voice may have been monotonous. I 
have always thought that Hendry’s reading of 
the Bible was the most solemn and impressive 
I have ever heard. He exulted in the four- 
teenth of John, pouring it forth like one whom 
it intoxicated while he read. He emphasized 
every other word ; it was so real and grand to 
him. 


214 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


We went upon our knees while Hendry 
prayed, all but Jess, who could not. Jamie 
buried his face in her lap. The words Hendry 
said were those he used every night. Some, 
perhaps, would have smiled at his prayer to 
God that we be not puffed up with riches nor 
with the things of this world. His head shook 
with emotion while he prayed, and he brought 
us very near to the Throne of Grace. “Do 
thou, O our God,” he said, in conclusion, 
“spread Thy guiding hand over him whom in 
Thy great mercy Thou hast brought to us 
again, and do Thou guard him through the 
perils which come unto those that go down to 
the sea in ships. Let not our hearts be trou- 
bled, neither let them be afraid, for this is not 
our abiding home, and may we all meet in Thy 
house, where there are many mansions, and 
where there will be no last night. Amen. ” 

It was a silent kitchen after that, though 
the lamp burned long in Jess 5 window. By 
its meagre light you may take a final glance 
at the little family ; you will never see them 
together again. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


JESS LEFT ALONE. 

There may be a few who care to know how 
the lives of Jess and Hendry ended. Leeby 
died in the back-end of the year I have been 
speaking of, and as I was snowed up in the 
school-house at the time, I heard the news from 
Gavin Birse too late to attend her funeral. She 
got her death on the commonty one day of sud- 
den rain, when she had run out to bring in her 
washing, for the terrible cold she woke with 
next morning carried her off very quickly. 
Leeby did not blame Jamie for not coming to 
her, nor did I, for I knew that even in the 
presence of death the poor must drag their 
chains. He never got Hendry’s letter with the 
news, and we know now that he was already 
in the hands of her who played the devil with 
his life. Before the spring came he had been 
lost to Jess. 


215 


216 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“Them ’at has got sae mony blessin’s mair 
than the generality,” Hendry said to me one 
day, when Craigiebuckle had given me a lift 
into Thrums, “has nae shame if they would 
pray aye for mair. The Lord has gi’en this 
hoose sae muckle, ’at to pray for mair looks 
like no bein’ thankfu’ for what we’ve got. Ay, 
hut I canna help prayin’ to him ’at in his 
great mercy he’ll tak Jess afore me. Noo ’at 
Leeby’s gone, an’ Jamie never lets us hear frae 
him, I canna gulp doon the thocht o’ Jess bein’ 
left alane.” 

This was a prayer that Hendry may be par- 
doned for having so often in his heart, though 
God did not think fit to grant it. In Thrums, 
when a weaver died, his womenfolk had to 
take his seat at the loom, and those who, by 
reason of infirmities, could not do so, went to 
a place, the name of which, I thank God, I am 
not compelled to write in this chapter. I could 
not, even at this day, have told any episodes 
in the life of J ess had it ended in the poor-house. 

Hendry would probably have recovered from 
the fever had not this terrible dread darkened 


JESS LEFT ALONE. 


217 


his intellect when he was still prostrate. He 
was lying in the kitchen when I saw him last 
in life, and his parting words must be sadder 
to the reader than they were to me. 

“ Ay, richt ye are,” he said, in a voice that 
had become a child’s; “I hae muckle, muckle, 
to be thankfu’ for, an’ not the least in ’at baith 
me an’ Jess has aye belonged to a bural society. 
We hae nae cause to be anxious aboot a’ thing 
bein’ dune respectable aince we’re gone. It 
was Jess ’at insisted on oor joinin’: a’ the 
wisest things I ever did I was put up to by her. ” 

I parted from Hendry, cheered by the doc- 
tor’s report, but the old weaver died a few 
days afterward. His end was mournful, yet 
I can recall it now as the not unworthy close 
of a good man’s life. One night poor worn Jess 
had been helped ben into the room, Tibbie Birse 
having undertaken to sit up with Hendry. 
Jess slept for the first time for many days, and 
as the night was dying Tibbie fell asleep too. 
Hendry had been better than usual, lying 
quietly, Tibbie said, and the fever was gone. 
About three o’clock Tibbie woke and rose to 


218 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


mend the fire. Then she saw that Hendry was 
not in his bed. 

Tibbie went hen the house in her stocking- 
soles, but Jess heard her. 

“What is’t, Tibbie?” she asked anxiously. 

“Ou, it’s no naething,” Tibbie said, “he’s 
lyin’ rale quiet.” 

Then she went up to the attic. Hendry was 
not in the house. 

She opened the door gently and stole out. 
It was not snowing, but there had been a heavy 
fall two days before, and the night was windy. 
A tearing gale had blown the upper part of 
the brae clear, and from T’nowhead’s fields 
the snow was rising like smoke. Tibbie ran 
to the farm and woke up T’nowhead. 

For an hour they looked in vain for Hendry. 
At last some one asked who was working in 
Elshioner’s shop all night. This was the long 
earthen-floored room in which Hendry’s loom 
stood with three others. 

“It’ll be Sanders Whamond likely,” T’now- 
head said, and the other men nodded. 

But it happened that T’nowhead’s Bell, who 


JESS LEFT ALONE. 


219 


had flung on a wrapper, and hastened across to 
sit with Jess, heard of the light in Elshioner’s 
shop. 

“ It’s Hendry, ’’she cried, and then every one 
moved toward the workshop. 

The light at the diminutive, yarn -covered 
window was pale and dim ; but Bell, who was 
at the house first, could make the most of a 
cruizey’s glimmer. 

“It’s him,” she said, and then, with swelling 
throat, she ran hack to Jess. 

The door of the workshop was wide open, 
held against the wall by the wind. T’nowhead 
and the others went in. The cruizey stood on 
the little window. Hendry’s back was to the 
door, and he was leaning forward on the silent 
loom. He had been dead for some time, but 
his fellow-workers saw that he must have 
weaved for nearly an hour. 

So it came about that for the last few 
months of her pilgrimage Jess was left alone. 
Yet I may not say that she was alone. Jamie, 
who should have been with her, was under- 
going his own ordeal far away; where, we 


220 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS . 


did not now even know. But though the 
poor-house stands in Thrums, where all may 
see it, the neighbors did not think only of 
themselves. 

Than Tammas Haggart there can scarcely 
have been a poorer man, but Tammas was the 
first to come forward with offer of help. To 
the day of Jess’ death he did not once fail to 
carry her water to her in the morning, and 
the luxuriously living men of Thrums, in those 
present days of pumps at every corner, can 
hardly realize what that meant. Often there 
were lines of people at the well by three o’clock 
in the morning, and each had to wait his turn. 
Tammas filled his own pitcher and pan, and 
then had to take his place at the end of the 
line with Jess’ pitcher and pan, to wait his 
turn again. His own house was in the Tene- 
ments, far from the brae in winter time, but 
he always said to Jess it was “naething ava.” 

Every Saturday old Bobbie Angus sent a 
bag of sticks and shavings from the saw-mill 
by his little son Rob, who was afterward to be 
come a man for speaking about at nights. Of 


JESS LEFT ALONE. 


221 


all the triends that Jess and Hendry had, 
T’nowheaa was the ablest to help, and the 
sweetest memory I have of the farmer and his 
wife is the delicate way they offered it. You 
who read will see Jess wince at the offer of 
charity. But the poor have fine feelings be- 
neath the grime, as you will discover if you 
care to look for them ; and when Jess said she 
would bake if any one would buy, you would 
wonder to hear how many kindly folk came to 
her door for scones. 

She had the house to herself at nights, but 
Tibbie Birse was with her early in the morn- 
ing, and other neighbors dropped in. Not for 
long did she have to wait the summons to the 
better home. 

“Na,”she said to the minister, who has told 
me that he was a better man from knowing 
her, “my thochts is no nane set on the vani- 
ties o’ the world noo. I kenna hoo I could 
ever hae haen sic an ambeetion to hae thae 
stuff- bottomed chairs.” 

I have tried to keep away from Jamie, whom 
the neighbors sometimes upbraided in her pres- 


222 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


ence. It is of him you who read would like to 
hear, and I cannot pretend that Jess did not 
sit at her window looking for him. 

“Even when she was bakin’,’’ Tibbie told 
me, “she aye had an eye on the brae. If 
Jamie had come at ony time when it was licht 
she would hae seen ’im as sune as he turned 
the corner.” 

“ If he ever comes back, the sacket (rascal),” 
T’nowhead said to Jess, “ we’ll show ’im the 
door gey quick.” 

Jess just looked, and all the women knew 
how she would take Jamie to her arms. 

We did not know of the London woman then, 
and Jess never knew of her. Jamie’s mother 
never for an hour allowed that he had be- 
come anything but the loving laddie of his 
youth. 

“I ken ’im ower weel,” she always said, 
“my ain Jamie.” 

Toward the end she was sure he was dead. 
I do not know when she first made up her mind 
to this, or whether it was not merely a phrase 
for those who wanted to discuss him with her. 


JESS LEFT ALONE. 


223 


I know that she still sat at the window looking 
at the elbow of the brae. 

The minister was with her when she died. 
She was in her chair, and he asked her, as was 
his custom, if there was any particular chapter 
which she would like him to read. Since her 
husband’s death she had always asked for the 
fourteenth of John, “Hendry’s chapter,” as it 
is still called among a very few old people in 
Thrums. This time she asked him to read the 
sixteenth chapter of Genesis. 

“When I came to the thirteenth verse,” the 
minister toid me, “ c And she called the name 
of the Lord that spake unto her, Thou God 
seest me, ’ she covered her face with her two 
hands, and said, ‘ Joey’s text, Joey’s text. 
Oh, but I grudged ye sair, Joey.’” 

“I shut the hook,” the minister said, “when 
I came to the end of the chapter, and then I 
saw that she was dead. It is my belief that 
her heart broke one-and-twenty years ago.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

JAMIE’S HOME-COMING. 

On a summer day, when the sun was in the 
weavers’ workshops, and bairns hopped sol- 
emnly at the game of palaulays, or gayly shook 
their bottles of sugarelly water into a froth, 
Jamie came back. The first man to see him 
was Hookey Crewe, the post. 

“ When he came frae London,” Hookey said 
afterward at T’nowhead’s pig-sty, “Jamie 
used to wait for me at Zoar, i’ the north end 
o’ Tilliedrum. He carried his box ower the 
market muir, an’ sat on’t at Zoar, waitin’ for 
me to catch ’im up. Ay, the day afore yes- 
terday me an’ the powny was clatterin’ by 
Zoar, when there was Jamie standin’ in his 
identical place. He hadna nae box to sit upon, 
an’ he was far frae bein’ weel in order, but I 

kent ’im at aince, an’ I saw ’at he was waitin’ 
224 


JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. 


225 


for me. So I drew up, an’ waved my hand 
to ’im.” 

“I would hae drove straucht by ’im,” said 
T’nowhead ; “ them ’at leaves their auld mother 
to want doesna deserve a lift.” 

“ Ay, ye say that sittin’ there,” Hookey said^ 
“but, lads, I saw his face, an’ as sure as death 
it was sic an’ awfu’ meeserable face ’at I could- 
na hut pu’ the powny up. Weel, he stood for 
the space o’ a meenute lookin’ straucht at me 
as if he would like to come forrit but dauredna. 
an’ syne he turned an’ strided awa ower the 
muir like a huntit thing. I sat still i’ the cart, 
an’ when he was far awa he stoppit an’ lookd 
again, but a’ my cryin’ wouldna bring him a 
step back, an’ i’ the end I drove on. I’ve 
thocht since syne ’at he didna ken whether his 
fowk was livin’ or deid, an’ was fleid to speir.” 

“He didna ken,” said T’nowhead, “but the 
faut was his ain. It’s ower late to be taen up 
aboot Jess noo.” 

“Ay, ay, T’nowhead,” said Hookey, “it’s 
aisy to you to speak like that. Ye didna see 

his face.” 

15 


226 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


It is believed that Jamie walked from Tillie- 
drum, though no one is known to have met 
him on the road. Some two hours after the 
post left him, he was seen by old Rob Angus 
at the saw-mill. 

“I was sawin’ awa wi’ a’ mymicht,”Rob 
said, “an’ little Rob was haudin’ the booards, 
for they were silly but things, when something 
made me look at the window. It couldna hae 
been a tap on’t, for the birds has used me to 
that, an’ it would hardly be a shadow, for lit- 
tle Rob didna look up. Whatever it was I 
stoppit i’ the middle o’ a booard, an’ lookit up, 
an’ there I saw Jamie McQumpha. He joukit. 
back when our een met, but I saw him weel ; 
ay, it’s a queer thing to say, but he had the 
face o’ a man ’at had come straucht frae 
hell.” 

“I stood starin’ at the window,” Angus con- 
tinued, “after he’d gone, an’ Robbie cried oot 
to ken what was the maiter wi’ me. Ay, 
that brocht me back to mysel’, an’ I hurried 
oot to look for Jamie, but he wasna to be seen. 
That face gae me a turn.” 


JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. 


m 


From the saw-mill to the house at the top 
of the brae, some may remember, the road is 
up the commonty. Ido not think any one saw 
Jamie on the commonty, though there were 
those to say they met him. 

“He gae me sic a look,” a woman said, “ ’at 
I was fleid an’ ran hame,” but she did not tell 
the story until Jamie’s home-coming had be- 
come a legend. 

There were many women hanging out their 
washing on the commonty that day, and none 
of them saw him. I think Jamie must have 
approached his old home by the fields, and 
probably he held back until gloaming. 

The young woman who was now mistress of 
the house at the top of the brae both saw and 
spoke with Jamie. 

“Twa or three times,” she said, “I had seen 
a man walk quick up the brae an’ by the door. 
It was gettin’ dark, but I noticed ’at he was 
short an’ thin, an’ I would hae said he wasna 
nane weel if it hadna been ’at he gaed by at 
sic a steek. He didna look our wy — at least no 
when he was close up, an’ I set ’im doon for 


228 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


some ga’en aboot body. Na, I saw naething 
aboot ’im to be fleid at. ’ 

“ The aucht o’clock bell was ringin’ when I 
saw ’im to speak to. My twa-year-auld bairn 
was standin’ aboot the door, an’ I was mak- 
kin’ some porridge for my man’s supper when 
I heard the bairny skirlin’. She came runnin’ 
in to the hoose an’ hung i’ my wrapper, an’ 
she was hingin’ there, when I gaed to the door 
to see what was wrang. 

“It was the man I’d seen passin’ the hoose. 
He was standin’ at the gate, which, as a ’body 
kens, is but sax steps frae the hoose, an’ I won- 
dered at ’im neither runnin’ awa nor cornin’ 
forrit. I speired at ’im what he meant by ter- 
rifyin’ a bairn, but he didna say naething. 
He juist stood. It was ower dark to see his 
face richt, an’ I wasna nane ta’en aback yet, 
no till he spoke. Oh, but he had a fearsome 
word when he did speak. It was a kind o’ 
like a man hoarse wi’ a cauld, an’ yet no that 
either.” 

u Wha bides i’ this hoose?” he said, ay 
standin’ there. 


JAMIE'S HOME-COMING . 


229 


“ It’s Davit Patullo’s hoose, ” I said, “ an’ ’am 
the wife.” 

“Whaur’s Hendry McQumpha?” he speired. 

“He’s deid,” I said. 

He stood still for a fell while. 

“An’ his wife, Jess?” he said. 

“She’s deid, too,” I said. 

I thocht he gae a groan, but it may hae been 
the gate. 

“There was a dochter, Leeby? ” he said. 

“Ay,” I said, “she was ta’en first.” 

“ I saw ’im put up his hands to his face, an’ 
he cried oot, ‘Leeby too!’ an’ syne he kind o’ 
fell agin the dyke. I never kent ’im nor nane 
o’ his fowk, but I had heard aboot them, an’ I 
saw ’at it would be the son frae London. It 
wasna for me to judge ’im, an’ I said to ’im 
would he no come in by an’ tak a rest. I was 
nearer ’im by that time, an’ it’s an awfu’ 
haver to say ’at he had a face to frichten fowk. 
It was a rale guid face, but no ava what a 
body would like to see on a young man. I 
felt mair like greetin’ mysel’ when I saw his 
face than drawin’ awa frae ’im. 


230 A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 

“ But he wouldna come in. Rest , 5 he said, 
like ane speakin’ to ’imsel’, ’na, there’s nae 
mair rest for me. ’ I didna weel ken what mail* 
to say to ’im, for he aye stood on, an’ I wasna 
even sure ’at he saw me. He raised his heid 
when he heard me tellin’ the bairn no to tear 
my wrapper. 

“‘Dinna set yer heart ower muckle on that 
bairn,’ he cried oot, sharp like. ‘I was aince 
like her, an’ I used to hing aboot my mother, 
too, in that very roady. Ay, I thocht I was 
fond o’ her, an’ she thocht it too. Tak’ a care, 
wuman, ’at that bairn doesna grow up to mur- 
der ye. ’ 

“ He gae a lauch when he saw me tak haud 
o’ the bairn, an’ syne a’ at aince he gaed awa 
quick. But he wasna far doon the brae when 
he turned an’ came back. 

“ ‘Ye’ll, mebbe, tell me, he said, richt low, 
‘if ye hae the furniture ’at used to be my 
mother’s? ’ 

“‘Na,’ I said, ‘it was roupit, an’ I kenna 
whaur the things gaed, for me an’ my man 
comes frae Tilliedrum. ’ 


JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. 


231 


“‘Ye wouldna hae heard,’ he said, ‘wha got 
the muckle airm-chair ’at used to sit i’ the 
kitchen i’ the window ’at looks ower the brae? ’ 
“ ‘I couldna be sure,’ I said, ‘ but there was 
an airm-chair ’at gaed to Tibbie Birse. If it 
was the ane ye mean, it a’ gaed to bits, an’ I 
think they burned it. It was gey dune. ’ 

“ ‘Ay,’ he said, ‘it was gey dune.’ 

“ ‘There was the chairs ben i’ the room,’ he 
said after a while. 

“ I said I thocht Sanders Elshioner had got 
them at a bargain, because twa o’ them was 
mended wi’ glue, an’ gey silly. 

“‘Ay, that’s them,’ he said, ‘they were richt 
neat mended. It was my mother ’at glued 
them. I mind o’ her makkin’ the glue, an’ 
warnin’ me an’ my father no to sit on them. 
There was the clock too, an’ the stool ’at my 
mother got oot an’ into her bed wi’, an’ the 
basket ’at Leeby carried when she gaed the 
errands. The straw was aff the handle, an’ 
my father mended it wi’ strings. ’ 

“‘I dinna ken,’ I said, ‘whaur nane o’ thae 
gaed; but did yer mother hae a staff?’ 


232 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


“‘A little staff,’ he said; ‘it was near black 
wi’ age. She couldna gang frae the bed to 
her chair withoot it. It was broadened oot at 
the foot wi’ her leanin’ on’t sae muckle. ’ 

‘“I’ve heard tell,’ I said, ‘’at the dominie 
up i’ Glen Quharity took awa the staff.’ 

“He didna speir for nae other thing. He 
had the gate in his hand, but I dinna think he 
kent ’at he was swingin’ ’t back an’ forrit. At 
last he let it go. 

“‘That’s a’,’ he said, ‘I maun awa. Good 
nicht’ an’ thank ye kindly. ’ 

“ I watched ’im till he gaed oot o’ sicht. 
He gaed doon the brae.” 

We learned afterward from the grave-digger 
that some one spent great part of that night in 
the graveyard, and we believe it to have been 
Jamie. He walked up the glen to the school- 
house next forenoon, and I went out to meet 
him when I saw him coming down the path. 

“Ay,” he said, “it’s me come back.” 

I wanted to take him into the house and 
speak with him of his mother, but he would 
not cross the threshold. 


JAMIE'S HOME-COMING. 


233 


“I came oot,” he said, “to see if ye would 
gie me her staff — no ’at I deserve ’t.” 

I brought out the staff and handed it to 
him, thinking that he and I would soon meet 
again. As he took it I saw that his eyes were 
sunk back into his head. Two great tears hung 
on his eyelids, and his mouth closed in agony. 
He stared at me till the tears fell upon his 
cheeks, and then he went away. 

That evening he was seen by many persons 
crossing the square. He went up the brae to 
his old home, and asked leave to go through 
the house for the last time. First he climbed 
up into the attic, and stood looking in, his feet 
still on the stair. Then he came down and 
stood at the door of the room, but he went into 
the kitchen. 

“I’ll ask one last favor o’ ye,” he said to the 
woman : “I would like ye to leave me here 
alane for juist a little while.” 

“I gaed oot,” the woman said, “meanin’ to 
leave ’im to ’iinsel’, hut my bairn wouldna 
come, an’ he said, ‘Never mind her,’ so I left 
her wi’ ’im, an’ closed the door. He was in a 


234 


A WINDOW IN THRUMS. 


lang time, but I never kent what he did, for 
the bairn juist aye greets when I speir at her. 

“ I watched ’im frae the corner window gang 
doon the brae till he came to the corner. I 
thocht he turned round there an’ stood lookin’ 
at the hoose. He would see me better than I 
saw him, for my lamp was i’ the window, 
whaur I’ve heard tell his mother keepit her 
cruizey. When my man came in I speired at 
’im if he’d seen onybody standin’ at the cor- 
ner o’ the brae, an’ he said he thocht he’d seen 
somebody wi’ a little staff in his hand. Davit 
gaed doon to see if he was aye there after 
supper-time, but he was gone.” 

Jamie was never again seen in Thrums. 


THE END. 


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